


By A Thousand Cuts

by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier



Series: You Go To My Head [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ableism, Addiction, Alternate universe—Hospital, Anaesthesia - Freeform, Anger, Angst, Autism Spectrum, Bullying, Career crisis, Childhood, Christmas, Depression, Doctor!John, Doctor!Sherlock, Don't copy to another site, Drama, Established Relationship, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, M/M, Medical husbands, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sensory Processing Disorder, Therapy, a bit of whump, neurosurgery, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 95,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution, https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: It's hard to let go of the past, especially when going home for the holidays. An incident just before Christmas brings unpleasant memories to the surface, and the wounds Sherlock carries may take more than just time to heal.





	1. The Winter's Rage Freeze Thy Blood

**Author's Note:**

> J. Baillier wants to dedicate this to everyone who's had to deal with family drama on Christmas.

 

Sherlock barges in between the revolving doors. The screeching caused by the wind tunnel effect of bitterly cold air escaping through the narrow gap at floor level pierces through his consciousness like an ice pick, making him shield his ears with his palms. The sound shatters his already fragmented concentration and causes a shudder to run through him as he tries to push his way through. Absurdly, the auditory insult then stops as quickly as it had begun. Startled, he steps back from the recalcitrant portal and glances behind him as the door in front starts moving again, just too slowly. He pushes forward, using more force than should be necessary but it stops again. Confused now, and a bit panicked by being caught in this glass trap, Sherlock gets nudged forward by the door behind until he can squeeze through the gap. He ends up spinning around in his haste, stumbling backwards his first steps on the marble floor of the hotel lobby.

His sense of balance is shot to hell, and the strange taste of iron in his mouth is close to making him retch as he tries to make sense from the jumble of letters on a sign on the counter across the sizable foyer. Just as his brain manages to grasp that this is the reception desk, the man behind it looks up as he approaches, and his features shift into apprehension and alarm as though someone has turned twisted a facial kaleidoscope.

"I need a taxi," Sherlock manages, frowning as he checks the words in his head after producing them. He is not quite sure they are the right ones; they taste bitter and awkward on his tongue, like plucking up the courage to speak in a foreign language for the first time.  _Orange, with a hint of ginger?_

"Sir?" the man asks, rummaging around underneath the desk for something.

 _Alarm button?_ is what Sherlock’s brain suggests, as he wades through the sensory misinformation that continues to overwhelm his thought processes.

"Sir, are you quite alright?"

His nose is running, and he wipes it on his sleeve. When he glances down, he realises it has bloomed crimson. "Paddington is closed," he says because it's the last thing that had made any sense.

The man on the other side of the counter is extending his hand, offering him some tissues. He accepts them but doesn't quite understand what they have to do with the Tube closure.

"Sir, you’re—" the receptionist starts to point out in a reserved tone, then touches his fingers to his nose in a strange, hesitant gesture.

Blinking at the nonsense, Sherlock tries to decode the obscure message. Finally, it all connects, and what also now registers, is the pain in his face.

 _My nose is bleeding_.

He raises the tissues to it, gasping with pain and nausea as he pinches it and his fingers around the wings of his nose. "I need a taxi. Please," he adds, wondering if the missing platitude is what had prevented the man from understanding him the first time.

The receptionist nods towards the front entrance, outside of which at least two dozen people are standing. "I'm afraid they are all before you in the queue. The nearest underground station is closed, and there's flooding in the area that's turning to ice, so the local minicab and limousine services are overworked. Apparently even Uber is saying there's a two-hour wait. Are you sure you're not in need of an ambulance?"

"I’m fine," Sherlock mutters. "I need to get home."

"There's another Underground station close by; I could give you a map—"

" _No!_ " Sherlock instantly protests, because the thought of leaving the haven of this lobby feels impossible and terrifying and he doesn't quite connect why.

It had all happened so quickly. _It’s nothing_. It should be nothing. His recollections feel messy, patchy, uncertain.  _John_ , he should call John, but his phone is gone. He doesn't even remember John's number, he realises, and a sudden panic floods over him. It's programmed into the phone, so he never has to key it in, and his phone is _gone_.

He watches—confused, alarmed, and mute—as the receptionist pulls aside a colleague to whisper something into her ear. After nodding, she disappears off somewhere.

"Sir?" the receptionist asks once again, and Sherlock is tempted to snap at him from being so dull and repetitive, but the words don't come.

 _Phone_ , his phone is gone; he needs a phone. He can call work, he can call directory inquiries and then call work, or possibly he could ask directory inquiries to connect him.

He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to breathe, but the congestion in his nose is distracting. Finally, he parses together: "Can I use your phone? Mine’s gone."

The receptionist jerks into action, possibly reassured by the request which Sherlock hopes has sounded sensible. The receiver of a landline just behind the counter is soon thrust into his hand—just as the woman from before returns with a towel and a plastic bag full of ice chips.

Sherlock lifts the receiver to his ear and dials 192. Nothing happens. "How do I—"

"Press zero first," the receptionist cuts in helpfully. In fact, he presses the cut-off and then the appropriate key for Sherlock.

His heart pounding, he rehearses the right word once, twice, three times. _No room for error_.

Thankfully, the Directory Enquiries call centre doesn’t dawdle, and it doesn’t take long before the King’s College Hospital telephone service responds.

"This is Doctor Sherlock Holmes; put me through to Doctor John Watson—his mobile, please." While he waits, he finally manages to deduce why the bag of ice with the towel wrapped around it has been placed on the desk in front of him and presses it to his nose. It doesn't appear to be bleeding any more, but it's stuffy and terribly sore.

The beeping stops, and the line makes a strange clicking noise, making Sherlock's heart skip a beat in both alarm and relief. He doesn't call people unless he absolutely has to.

"Hello?" John's slightly irritated voice answers at the other end. He must be assuming this is a call from the hospital, and Sherlock is grateful that it hasn't gone through to voicemail. They're both on leave, so the only reason for King's to call John would be to try to coax him to do an extra shift because someone's called in sick.

"John?" Sherlock asks needlessly. There’s something reassuring about the name tumbling off the tip of his tongue, even if it currently sounds a bit nasal and frantic.

"Sherlock? This isn’t your mobile number. Where are you?"

"Can you come get me?"

"Get you? Why?"

"Paddington’s closed," he offers. "There aren’t any cabs."

"Can’t you Uber or get to another station? I was just about to have another whisky."

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with such information. Should he feel guilty that he is interrupting? Is this an occasion when he should indulge John with small talk? "No, it’s—Can you come?"

Silence. Then, the inevitable inquiry: "Are you okay?"

" _Yes_!" Sherlock announces irritably, the all-too-familiar frustration over not being understood rising. "I just need a ride home."

"What’s this number you’re calling from?" John asks. Sherlock can hear him walking around their new Baker Street flat, gathering his things. "Where the hell are you?"

"I’m at the hotel. I don’t have my phone." John knows which hotel, John always remembers these things.

"I've told you to check your pockets before leaving the hospital so that this doesn't happen. I swear you've sometimes got your head so high up in the clouds that you'd misplace it if it weren't attached to your shoulders."

"I did check my pockets." It’s a relief that getting hold of John seems to be helping him entice words, sensible words, the _right_ words, to return to him.

He's shaking, he realises. John says something that doesn't register, then rings off. Sherlock is directed to sit in an armchair in the lobby, holding the bag of ice to his face. The cold sting seems to be clearing his head, and he manages to decline both the second offer of an ambulance and an offer to contact the police. In the background, there is music playing—he has to work hard at it, but eventually makes sense of the singing. It's a carol, _Good King Wenceslas_. The hotel reception area has a Christmas tree by the lift lobby, but he has to close his eyes as the lights are twinkling in some random pattern which makes his head ache even more. The ice starts to melt; where it has seeped out of the bag, it is making the front of his shirt wet. He does not notice.

He has no idea how much time passes before John strides into the lobby with his coat left open, without gloves and scarf. The coat is John's new, nice Salle Privée one they had picked out together. By now, Sherlock has regained his composure up to the point that today’s events have taken up a rather absurd tinge in his recollections, as though they are just a story he’s heard.

Standing in the middle of the lobby, John does a quick survey of the area before spotting Sherlock and striding purposefully to him. He has pulled his shoulders back, and he looks determined in that certain way he does when he's not yet certain whether he should be worried or irritated.

When he sees Sherlock's face, the decision is made, and concern wins over his Captain Watson scowl.

"Oh my God," John says, hand already reaching up to touch Sherlock's face but he evades. "What the hell happened?"

"Tripped, fell," Sherlock says. He had compared and analysed and rehearsed both words in his head and had meant to pick just one. "It, they... They took my phone and wallet."

"Fell on your face? Who got to your stuff?"

"It just—It happened too quickly." 

“You were mugged?" John’s gaze locks onto the wrist of Sherlock's hand that's still holding the bag of ice, and he grabs hold of the arm. "What’s this?"

Sherlock stares at the abraded, bruised skin on his wrist in puzzlement. He hadn't realised it was aching, too, not until now. He snatches his hand away. The pain blooming in it is like an injection of clarity into the maelstrom of his thoughts. "It was quick", he mutters.

"Looks like they took your watch as well?" John asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. "Did you hit your head? How hard exactly? Lose consciousness?" He's already peering at pupils, standing on tiptoes so that he could start carding through Sherlock's curls.

Again, Sherlock retreats an inch. _Too much_ , he thinks. _Don't touch me_. "I didn’t. No nausea, no headache, no dizziness. Can we go home?"

John suddenly leaves him be and heads towards the reception desk. "Call the police, please," he prompts.

"No!" Sherlock protests. Why won’t anyone let _him_ decide what to do? "Don’t," he pleads. "I didn’t see them; they’ll be long gone, now."

John looks angry, now. "Of course we need the police; for starters, we need the report for insurance."

"No," Sherlock insists. He stands up, starts walking for the entrance.

John jogs after him, leaving a confused receptionist watching their departure with a phone receiver in his hand since he'd been about to grant the request for summoning law enforcement.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Once inside the warmth and safety of the car, Sherlock leans back against the seat and closes his eyes, trying to drown out the world. Sounds are still sharp enough to feel akin to nails on a blackboard, and though the setting sun is low in the sky, it is drilling holes in his eyes. His skin prickles all over as though a low electric current is traversing between the tips of his hairs everywhere on his body. The doctor within him notes, yet again, how he experiences a shock in ways that are different from others. That's what this must be, but should it make him feel this disconnected while simultaneously threatening him with sensory overload?

He can only focus on himself at the moment; opening his eyes and communicating with John would shatter his control. He's tempted to hum, to create his own white noise to drown out the rest, to withdraw into his head. But, instead of the blissful nothingness beyond the gates of his Mind Palace, other things threaten to break in and overtake the view, so he's forced to anchor himself to the reality that's trying to overwhelm him.

He flinches and shudders when something touches his thigh and then withdraws, the aftershocks of the sudden intrusion bringing forth an irresistible impulse to rub and scratch the area. He rests his palm there, forces himself not to coil his fingers into the muscles under the fabric of his trousers. The temptation is too real to use pain to stop the cacophony of neural impulses; only John’s presence is acting as a brake when his mind is nearly skidding off the rails.

"Sherlock?"

He swallows, unformed words messy and thick on his tongue. Trying to choose a few feels akin to sticking his hand in a spinning washing machine, trying to grab the one item of clothing he wants.

A leather seat rustles as John leans over. Sherlock opens his eyes just as arms encircle him, pull him into an impractical embrace that forces him to lean slightly over the gear stick.

John holds him tightly enough that the effect is calming, not irritating. He takes five deep breaths, then five more, and the world realigns its axis just enough that he can reconnect to it.

John lets go, peers through the windshield and glances into the rearview mirror to make sure there's no immediate need to move the car. Then, he rests his palms on the steering wheel. "Can you tell me what happened?"

 _No, I can't_. Sherlock can't make too much sense of it himself, and the more time passes, the messier it all seems to become. Yet, he knows he has to try to explain himself; John won't give up asking when he's this worried. "I didn't see them. Maybe I tripped, maybe they pushed me. Phone fell out of my pocket. They got my wallet, too. Didn't see them."

John digs out his own wallet from his pocket and gives his credit cards to Sherlock. "These should have the numbers for the cancellation services."

 _Right, yes, cancel the cards_.

He hadn't paid much attention to the man in a hoodie approaching from the front. The first thing that had alerted him to the man's existence was the switchblade against his throat, after which a second person shoved him face-first against the concrete wall separating the walkway from the train tracks. He touches his neck where he'd felt the blade pressing in but doesn't feel anything out of the ordinary there. It can't have pierced the skin, then, which fits with how the pain hadn't been very intense. Then again, his pain perception varies from situation to situation. What does still hurt is his nose and his right eyebrow; he recalls trying to turn his head and getting his face ground into the concrete wall once again.

"Did you have your iPad or laptop with you?" John asks.

"Left both at home." Though they're on holidays, Sherlock had a meeting today at the Paddington Novotel with the representatives of a medical company regarding a new model of his shunt design.

' _Who the hell schedules a meeting on the twenty-third of bloody December?_ ' John had complained. ' _We could have driven to Sussex today, instead of getting stuck in traffic tomorrow morning_.'

Sherlock recalls looking at a map on his phone, reasoning that whatever problem had closed down Paddington Underground Station would affect the Warwick Avenue station as well and that all the taxis in the area would be busy due to the temporary closure of such a major hub on a Friday evening. So, his best bet was to walk to Royal Oak station to catch either the Circle Line or the Hammersmith and City line to Baker Street. The Paddington Basin in front of the station has been developed into a high rise commercial, residential and shopping district and the Novotel between the two stations was barely a stone's throw away from it, so it hadn't even occurred to him to question whether the short walk to Royal Oak would be a risky move. Granted, there wasn't much pedestrian traffic, and the walk would require passing under the A404 and the Westway, but it was broad daylight, and the route looked straightforward.

It wasn't.

On the short, narrow pedestrian track which connected Westbourne Bridge to Bourne Terrace, someone must have thought he looked like an easy victim.

 _Victim?_ Something about the word seems wrong. He'd simply been stupid to choose that route, careless enough not to think about safety. He doesn't want to explain everything in detail to John because most likely John would tell him all the things he'd done wrong, the things he hadn't been able to reason beforehand because these things don't occur to him as they do to others. And, when it had happened, he'd just frozen. Hadn't defended himself, hadn't said anything, just got so badly paralysed that he hadn't even memorised any details of the attackers. _There's no point in going to the police. I’ve ruined any chance of catching them._

John would have fought them off, contacted the police, given a thorough description, cancelled his cards and taken the Tube home. _There were just two attackers_ , Sherlock suspects. _John would have done more_. He would have fought them off, presumably. Wouldn't the army have taught him self-defence against armed attackers? He wouldn't have gotten lost in his own head like Sherlock.

He realises he's rubbing his wrist. He slides the sleeve of his coat up, revealing abraded skin and a bruise where they'd pulled off his watch. It had been a gift from his father. _Yet another embarrassing thing I'll have to admit to losing._

He frowns at the stationary scenery outside. _Why hasn't John already driven off?_

John grabs his hand, inspects the damage more studiously than he had in the lobby. Then, he fixes his gaze on Sherlock. "You sure you're not concussed? It's just that you're so quiet." He then lets go, blows out a hesitant breath. "Sherlock–– I have to ask. They didn't… _do_ anything else, did they?" John's eyes then start sweeping down his clothes, looking for signs of-- _oh_.

"No. Nothing like that," Sherlock quickly assures him. "Just a garden-variety mugging. Happens every day in London."

 _John's question has a point._ He hadn't been properly assaulted, had he? Just pinned down momentarily. It had all been over in less than a minute. So, why the hell does he feel like this— as though something much worse had happened?

He's felt this way before, but it was years ago. He's an adult, now. _Just a mugging. Pointless to dwell on it._

"It's just that--" John starts, and the way he's still scrutinising Sherlock as though trying to catch him with a lie is growing more irritating by the second.

"There's _nothing wrong with me_ ," Sherlock announces, his voice louder and angrier than he'd intended. "Can we go now?"

His answer seems to have satisfied John, who disengages the parking brake and puts the car into gear. "How'd the meeting go?"

"It was mainly about PR strategy for marketing the shunt in the Far East. Not much I could contribute to, apart from saying I don’t want to do a lot of travelling for that. I think they just wanted to remind me that, when I present the new data in conferences, I should behave myself."

John chuckles. "That'd be the day, eh?"  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the chapter titles in this story will be borrowed from Christmas songs. The title of this one is from "Good King Wenceslaus".


	2. Oh What Fun It Is To Ride

  


With a jolt, Sherlock wakes up to his name being called. After a thud and a baffling, aching sensation on his elbow, he finds himself on the sitting room floor. John is hovering close by, saying something, but Sherlock's concentration is too thin to focus on anything but trying to deduce what's going on, so the words don't register.

He scrambles up and manages to put together three facts: it appears to be morning, he's still in the clothes he wore yesterday, and he has fallen off the sofa where he had presumably fallen asleep.

"---thought you were making breakfast, so I didn't hurry to get up. Bloody hell, you've not even packed, have you?" John asks in the tone of a man who is asking a question he's convinced to which he already knows the answer.

Slowly, the final events of last night float into Sherlock's awareness fractured like the pieces of a puzzle. Feeling so anxious he didn't want to go to bed, he had told John he was going to cancel his cards and pack, then clear his email before the holidays. Instead, he had spent hours pacing, trying to think, trying not to think, daydreaming about smoking.

John looks at his watch, and Sherlock recognises, from years of experience, his expression as being disgruntled and impatient.

"We're picking Mycroft up in forty." John points out.

"In forty what?" Sherlock blurts out.

"Minutes, what did you think I meant? Christ, sometimes your sense of time just goes out the window," John grunts and goes to the kitchen to start opening and closing cabinets, presumably attempting to scrape together a breakfast.

John is right, of course—time has always been an issue for Sherlock. It either speeds too fast when he is busy focusing on something he enjoys doing, or it crawls like molasses when he is forced to endure something he hates. Thinking about it makes him look forlornly at his empty wrist. The abrasions are less painful today, but his shirt sleeve catches on the red patch and mocks him with a sharp sting for his stupidity.

A faint caffeine withdrawal headache is setting in, but Sherlock already feels jittery enough that he knows it's not a good idea. He feels… unfocused. Rattled. Fragmented. At some point before dawn, he’d lain with his eyes closed, drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, errant memories mixing with his thoughts and the sounds from outside. It had been disconcerting, lingering close to that invisible line where conscious control is rescinded, and automated and redundant systems of the brain take over. What had come to mind were old things, vague things. Threatening things. Things best left in the bottom mud of his subconscious, worthless and distracting.

He sheds his jacket, drops it on the sofa. He doesn't wear suits when they go to visit his parents. Maybe he should. His mother always dresses like she's about to whizz off to Ascot; maybe she'd take him more seriously if he looked the same. Or, maybe she'd still treat him like before every family function when he was a child, fussing over the expensive suits she bought for him, neurotically straightening lapels and checking that his socks hadn't rolled down his ankles—as though making him perfect on the outside might fix the inside, too, fix things she put a lot of effort into explaining away, hiding, excusing. _'Might as well look as good as he can, before he spoils it by saying something inappropriate,'_ she often remarked to Father when she thought Sherlock wasn't within earshot. He’s heard that too many times to want to set it off again.

He needs to pack, but the sequence of actions that entails is eluding him. Trying to list in his head the items which he needs to gather feels like a Herculean task right now. He feels hungover on his own intellect, exhausted by chasing after his own reasoning.

_What did John say just now? Is a reply expected?_

John yawns and puts the kettle on. "Could you at least text Mycroft, tell him we'll be late?" He seems to have forgotten Sherlock's phone was a casualty of last night's events.

Thankfully, John never locks his own, which Sherlock spots on the coffee table. He grabs it, opens the message app. ' _We'll be late Mycroft_ ,' he types and then presses send, without sparing any thought as to what he had actually composed.

He goes to the bedroom, stares at the bed John hasn't made. Is Sherlock expected to do so? He hesitates before it, then gives in to indecision and ignores the problem. He goes through every shelf in his side of the wardrobe and throws something into his duffle. It's good that he keeps his clothes so well organised. It still bothers him how John just keeps his socks in a big box, unpaired and unrolled. Sherlock is always tempted to fix it all, to make everything symmetrical, but it also always leaves him wondering where that strange need to organise the universe comes from.

Well, perhaps he does know where it comes from. There's a word for it, but he hates chalking things up to that. It's too easy. It's too easy, and it doesn't help.

"Have you heard back from the bank?" John shouts from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by mugs clinking together.

 _The credit cards_. Sherlock closes his eyes in despair. He should have cancelled the old ones last night and contacted his bank to get new ones. Lord knows what the muggers will have done to his bank account; they have very likely already used the contactless, and his debit card gives them access to any purchase by phone or the internet where the customer does not need to be present. Where is his executive functioning when he really needs it? Yet another stupidity to which he will have to admit—that he had felt too scattered last night to do anything useful. At least the receptionist at the Novotel can verify the timing if he needs to contest payments made. 

He manages to call out: "Not yet. I'll call them again in the car if you lend me your phone while you drive." He phrases it ambiguously enough so that John won’t realise that he hasn’t actually attended to any part of this pressing matter yet. He doesn’t think he can stand being made to look even more stupid and useless.

He picks up his iPad and slips it into the case; he’ll take it with him and contact the companies through their websites on the drive down before calling them. It'll give him something to do. Usually, he might secretly enjoy bickering in the car with his brother like they did as adolescents, but today, he feels exposed and would prefer not to be in the presence of anyone except John. With other Holmeses, he always feels like he needs to be on his best game.  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Mycroft is not concealing his irritation when they pull up in front of his Kensington home half an hour past the originally agreed-upon time.

"Let me guess," the older Holmes starts, arranging himself into the backseat after leaving his bags on the kerb for John to put in the back. _As though the man is a cabbie and not his brother-in-law_ , Sherlock thinks and gives Mycroft a glare in the rearview mirror. He deduces that his brother must be referring to the fact that they're late, and doesn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of assuming he had been the reason for it. It's enough that John nags at him about his lacking sense of time.

"No, I won't let you guess," Sherlock replies. "Happy Christmas to you, too."

Mycroft leans forward from the back seat, having now noticed the inevitable. "Goodness gracious me. What happened to your face? Did you upset a patient again?"

"None of your business, but the answer is no."

John climbs into the driver's seat. "He was mugged; got roughed up and his phone and wallet stolen."

"Where was this?"

"Lisson Grove," John replies.

"Technically, it was Maida Vale, just west of Paddington Basin," Sherlock corrects, as though any of it matters.

"Isn't the area all council housing? What were you doing there?"

"Trade meeting at the Novotel."

"What a ghastly place. Attended a meeting there once, myself."

"Looked alright to me," John said. "Not a five star, of course; I’m surprised you were slumming it, Mycroft."

Thankfully, this curbs the older Holmes' enthusiasm for continuing the interrogation. Sherlock is grateful for the silence.

Why had John offered Mycroft a lift? Is he somehow enamoured by the fact that Sherlock's family is now officially his family, too? Sherlock knows John's relationship with his own parents had been difficult, at best, and neither he nor Harry keeps in touch with them at all, so perhaps it's understandable that he'd long for a bit of the sort of bourgeois domesticity he'd never had. 

This'll be their third joint Christmas in Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood home in North Chailey, Sussex. John seems to enjoy them, perhaps because Christmases at the Holmes house don't involve John's alcoholic father getting violent over some trivial thing.

For Sherlock, visiting Sussex has always been a bittersweet thing. Bitter, mostly. Now that John is in the picture, Sherlock tries to keep out of the limelight while letting John enjoy himself. It has made these occasions more bearable to give his parents someone else to focus their attention upon. Then again, as soon as he has that thought, it makes Sherlock feel guilty for being so petty that he'd be jealous of their effortless interactions—of the way his father, in particular, seems to find John's company fun instead of baffling and fraught with miscommunication.

Yes, Sherlock _supposes_ that he must love his parents. Isn’t that what a son is expected to do? He’s been told often enough that is part of proper family behaviour. No, not even his brother is _that_ insufferable a twat, and since John has entered the picture, Big Brother seems to have backed off being as officious as he used to be.

The same cannot be said of Violet Holmes, even though both parents seem relieved that someone else is now ' _looking after our Sherlock'_. None of Sherlock's family really _know_ him, and sometimes he hasn't been sure that they like him. Is their supposed fondness more out of obligation and pity than a genuine appreciation of who he is and what qualities he possesses? He had once thought that the friction would ease as he grew up, but seeing John spending time with them, slipping so easily into the role of a much-liked son-in-law irritates him. _He makes it look so easy_.

Today, the very thought of going home feels exhausting. All the unintended barbs from Mycroft he'll have to sidestep, all the fussing by Mummy expecting him to fulfil her dreams of a well-behaved, well-adjusted son coming home for Christmas. She always ends up constantly reminding him of her inability to make do with the son she actually has, instead of that picture-perfect mythical creature she longs for. When he was little, his mother’s incessant over-mothering had been oppressive—she effectively isolated him from everyone else by trying to do the opposite. Father was there, of course, but Sherlock never seemed to have any time to enjoy his company because Mummy kept him too busy with forced, torturous playdates, therapy, and other nonsense. Father did things with Mycroft, things which Sherlock would have liked, too: museums, the local library, long walks. Sometimes the other Holmes men simply spent time reading together in the sitting room.

Sherlock digs out his tablet and messages the bank and three card companies. The response is instant through chat, and they're all telling him that they will freeze the accounts with immediate effect. It'll take a few days to issue new ones, but that won't be a problem—they can get by with John's cards during the holidays. Sherlock also calls O2 to close his number. Talking to customer service is easier than talking to people he knows. He'll have to buy a new phone, but that can wait; nobody really calls him except for John, his family, the hospital, and the medical tech company.  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
John doesn't initiate any conversation until they've left the nerve-racking holiday traffic in Central London behind. Once they’ve crossed the Thames on the Albert Bridge, they head for Lavender Hill. The only hold up is in the Wandsworth one-way system; once on the A3, things ease up a bit. John’s willing to endure the smaller roads through Epsom and Leatherhead rather than join the M25 or the M27 traffic that is heading straight for Gatwick. It’s not the shortest route counting by miles, but when there's airport congestion, it should save some travel time.

John and Mycroft are now occupying themselves with some small talk, which allows Sherlock to rest his brain by watching the rain-pelted roadside.

After Epsom, John pulls up at the BP Petrol Station to fill the tank. Mycroft disappears into the store, presumably to find tea about the quality of which he can then gripe, and Sherlock goes in search of the men's room. It's in the back, facing a narrow, empty alley. Something about it makes him uneasy to the extent of retracing his steps to the car, looking around the parking lot and then relieving himself in a hedge between the station and the road. This gets his trouser leg wet. He knows he's being paranoid and ridiculous. He should have just gone to the gent's.

Once back in the car, Mycroft passes him a steaming paper cup of tea he never asked for. The cardboard collar around it is adorned with anatomically unlikely reindeer.

"You could have let me sit in the front since you are not much company," his big brother declares from the back seat.

Mycroft then directs his words at John: "He’s always been like this, you know; his own family members are never interesting enough for him. Must be torture for him, having to feign caring about his patients at work, or wanting to pay attention to you at home."

"Much less torture than having to listen to you," Sherlock replies. "John is much more interesting than you've ever been."

"I wish you’d understood at some point how social conventions and basic consideration for others would make your life easier, too, and not just those of others. Lord knows Mummy tried to make you see sense."

Sherlock grits his teeth. "Strangely enough, to sound like you and your so-called poncey friends swapping names of tailors in Cannes and complaining about the weather at some Grenoble tennis tournament has never been my aspiration." He turns to John. "It remains my brother’s great tragedy that, no matter how much money he rakes into piles and shoves into the arms of charities, it can’t buy the sort of dusty heritage he so envies in the social circles he gate-crashes. They might appreciate his money and tolerate him, but they don’t _like_ him. Nobody does," he adds, awarding Mycroft with a disdainful glance.

"I could counter that with some observations regarding your social endeavours, brother mine."

"Please don’t," John cuts in.

Usually, his coming to Sherlock's defence would be a welcome relief. Today, Sherlock instead feels a strange need to assert his conversational dominance. People have always spoken over him and past him. Right now, the three of them are in _his_ car, driven by _his_ husband, and he's going to damned well demand respect from his brother at least this once in his life.

"I have friends," Sherlock says and hates his own defensive tone.

"Friends John has amassed and kindly lends to you, yes," Mycroft admits pointedly.

"Christ, the two of you," John berates, but Sherlock can hear a hint of amusement in his tone. "I wonder if Violet's turkey will fit in the oven this year. Last year we must have wasted at least a fourth of it, sawing off bits to get it in."

"Mummy does so love Christmas," Mycroft says in a tone that betrays a certain cynicism.

“You, on the other hand, love Christmas  _food."_ Sherlock can never resist the temptation to poke at his brother’s dietary weaknesses. The man has never sought to hide his culinary interests. His wine cellar would rival any Michelin-star restaurant in London, and he will bore for Britain on the subject at the slightest prompt.

John pointedly turns on the radio to some horrid brass band Christmas song and starts humming along. He's in a good mood, even giving Sherlock's knee a playful squeeze after digging out a packet of mints from the glove compartment.

"I'm supplying the usual selection of patés," Mycroft says. "I’ve found an even better supplier this year. The Swiss have some outstanding recipes; I've brought wild boar terrine with apricots, wild herbs and Madeira; fish terrine with black truffles, and venison paté with hazelnuts."

Sherlock hates patés and terrines. He can't recognise what he's eating, and the cold, claggy consistency made him gag when he was little. There were always several varieties on the Christmas table, and Mummy's rule that he always must try a little bit of everything—in order to expand the number of foods he was willing to eat—he was exposed to any and all such abominations. All in all, the Christmas dinner table was a veritable instrument of torture in the hands of Violet Holmes. Even now, it is only in theory that he gets to bow out of things he dislikes or doesn't recognise. And, even the courses he does find tolerable carry an aftertaste of bad memories.

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "…in a one-horse open sleigh…" Jingle bells, of course.


	3. For Known a Blessed Mother Shalt You Be

The cottage on Snowdrop Lane seems to sport more Christmas lights every year. The house is nearly two hundred years old and lovingly conserved, with a thatched roof and white outer walls with windows lined with black wood. The patch of grass between the front door and the street is small, but the back garden is more spacious, opening up to a field and then woodland, through which numerous public footpaths meander.

After stepping out of the car and taking in the multi-coloured lights which have been hung from several trees and bushes, Mycroft comments: "Good God, the place looks more garish every year." He then receives his black leather Gucci signature suitcase from John. “Christmas lights are a most American abomination."

Sherlock wishes he was in possession of some historical trivia with which he could challenge the snooty announcement, but Christmas has never been a subject he has deemed worthy of much exploration. He had loved Christmas lights as a child and begun asking in the early days of December for his father to put them up. Something about the lights in the darkness—especially the old, non-LED ones—brightened up the nights and appealed to him as long as they were tasteful. He’d never had time for the religious themes; Father had teased him for being a little pagan, while Mummy had despaired. At least there's the argument that many religions feature a festival of lights during the year’s darkest times.

Granted, the new string hung from an apple tree that blinks in four colours he dislikes as much as his brother. It looks downright seizure-inducing, and Sherlock hopes it won't be visible from the window of his old bedroom upstairs where he and John always stay. There's also a standing, deer-shaped, doe-eyed LED hideousness posed next to the front steps sporting a manic grin and a clown-like red nose. Mycroft blinks at it in visible disbelief as he leads John—who's carrying the rest of the bags—to the front door. It's flung wide open just as the older Holmes is about to lift the doorknocker.

Mummy, wearing an apron, begins screeching in delight at the sight of them. Sherlock loiters at the back of the SUV, postponing the inevitable. Mycroft dutifully embraces Mummy briefly, after which she shoos the two men into the house. A thump signals that John has put the bags down, and Mummy instantly disappears from view, presumably to pounce on him for a rib-crackingly tight hug.

Sherlock sighs and straightens his shoulders. _Brace for impact_.

As expected, when his mother returns to the front steps and takes in the sight of him, her delight turns into puzzled alarm because of his face. He assumes the bruising is more visible now, probably coming out even more evidently on the journey southward.

"But William dear, what's this?" She always forgets to call him Sherlock when she's surprised or too enthusiastic, or worried, or distracted… If John corrects her, the answer is always something along the lines of ' _Oh, he doesn’t mind being called William, that’s what we named him'_.

"What have you done to your face?" Violet Holmes demands.

_Yes, of course I've done this to himself, who else?_

Sherlock reluctantly makes his way to her, and she instantly seizes him by the forearms.

"Got into a scuffle," he answers. It is accurate enough, and he despises the truth for what it reveals about his ineptitude.

"With whom?" She steps back, straightens her frill-edged apron.

"Boys in the school yard," he quips and tries to squeeze past her into the inviting warmth of the house. The others are already shedding their coats while Mummy keeps him trapped on the front steps.

"Don't get smart with me," his mother berates. "Was it in London? It has to be London; I've read it's _so_ dangerous these days."

"Everywhere's dangerous," Sherlock excuses.

Mummy finally opens the door wider for him.

"Our neighbour had her handbag stolen in _broad daylight_ at Waterloo Station. Why weren't you in the car? You _always_ take the car," Mummy reminds him.

"I hardly need to remind you _I_ don't take the car anywhere," Sherlock mutters, untwisting his scarf off his neck.

"Just a bit of bad luck. You could say he ended up on the wrong side of the tracks," John says pleasantly, threading his own scarf into the hanger now carrying his coat.

"So, you were alone? Why were you alone?" Violet turns slightly to fix her gaze on John, who spreads his arms in defence. "Where were _you_?"

Before she can suggest that it was somehow wrong for him to have done something alone, Sherlock interrupts: "I had a meeting. We're not conjoined twins."

"Then you should be more careful," she tuts. "Trust you to be oblivious to risk. Street crime is rife in town. You know you couldn't possibly fight anyone off; you’re not an army officer like John. You never had any sense of danger, not even as a boy."

Her comment stings more than it should. Does she think he is so stupid as to be unaware of the comparison between what John could have done, _would_ have done, and what Sherlock had failed to do? "No, regrettably I am _not_ John."

Mummy sweeps her thumb along his cheekbone and hisses in sympathy. Finally, she gives him the inevitable crushing hug.

She continues to chatter to John while Sherlock hangs up his coat. "He’s always been so oblivious to his surroundings. What did the police say?"

"No point in reporting it," Sherlock cuts in sharply. "I didn't get the details, and our home insurance premiums going up would probably cost more than what I lost. They got my wallet, but I've cancelled the cards and I never carry much cash." He won't mention his phone yet, or the watch.

"Perhaps there's a crime spree in the area and someone else has already provided the necessary details. Oh John, why didn’t you make him report it?" Violet laments.

John stretches his shoulders—Sherlock realises that the driving must have been murder on his injury. "I don't _make_ him do things, Violet," he points out.

Sherlock exchanges a look with his husband, one he hopes will convey his appreciation of the fact that John is trying to give him some credit here for being able to manage his own decisions.

John's comment has the fortunate effect of shutting Mummy up for a moment. Soon, Sherlock's father appears in the foyer and shakes John's hand. He gives Mycroft a restrained hug and Sherlock a pat on the shoulder—he has always been more aware than Mummy of his preference not to be touched except when he invites the gesture. John is the only one with whom he actually enjoys physical contact.

The custom of exchanging inane pleasantries about the drive in and the weather is observed now that they are all together.

"There'll be fresh mince pies in an hour," Violet announces. "You'll have to wait for lunch a bit longer. Hungry?"

Sherlock knows John must be—they've usually had lunch by now and John's breakfast had been nothing but a chocolate bar at home and a cinnamon roll from the petrol station. Sugary treats don't sustain him for long and, although John is a good sport about having to go hungry, he does get more irritable and impatient without enough protein.

Still, he's had more food than Sherlock, who realises that he hasn't eaten a single mouthful today. The whole notion has just slipped his mind. Anxiety is very good at silencing such cravings—not that he has many of those anyway.

"I'd go for your cooking even if I wasn't, you know that," John compliments Violet and follows George Holmes into the sitting room, where Mycroft has already commandeered an armchair after depositing his luggage in his old bedroom in the back of the house. The largest bedroom upstairs belongs to Violet and George, and the second bedroom up there is Sherlock's old room, now with a small double bed instead of the original single. It takes up most of the narrow room.

Violet disappears into the kitchen and Sherlock is left in the hall with their luggage. But, just as he's breathed a sigh of relief of no longer being the centre of attention, there's a shout from the kitchen.

"Sherlock dear, come keep me company?"

A newspaper rustles in the sitting room as Mycroft leans forward in his seat so he can look back down the hall to where Sherlock is standing. "Could you take the plastic bag on the phone table into the kitchen and put the patés in the fridge?"

Sherlock collects the bag and decides to humour his mother, if only for the fact that she's remembered to call him by his preferred name. He does understand how hard it is to change old habits, but why give him three names if he's only allowed to use one of them?

He's _not_ a William. He’d tried to be one, for a long time. To be William, he'd have to be a lot more like John. Normal, safe, comprehensible, predictable…someone who puts people at ease and whose company others enjoy. He'll never carry any of his first names like a badge of honour because they all underline his peculiarity—either by contrasting with it or by emphasizing it. Mycroft, on the other hand, carries his strange name with pride—it had been the surname of one of their ancestors. Their paternal grandfather had been keen on genealogy and had left behind copious notes on his discoveries. In old English, the root word for Mycroft had meant _'mouth of the stream_ ', and Sherlock finds it fitting; once his brother gets started, there's no stopping the stream of pointless lectures coming from that mouth.

The name 'Sherlock' was inspired by an ancestor too—a cricket player by the name of T.F. Shacklock. As Father, a great fan of cricket, has told him too many times, Shacklock had played for a Nottinghamshire team together with a Mordecai Sherwin. Father always mentions their play positions, but Sherlock deletes such nonsense, having no interest in cricket even if an ancestor had made a career out of it.

"Knead that bread dough for me, will you," Violet says when he walks into the kitchen. She plonks a large porcelain bowl of flour and sugar and butter in front of him. "I'll sort the mincemeat. I'm adding more apple and extra brandy to my usual recipe."

Sherlock removes his wedding ring—he wears it on holidays, but at work, he has to make do with the tattoo underneath. He slips it into his pocket, not wanting to clean the sticky dough off afterwards. Mummy had often employed him in baking and cooking when he was young, having received advice from a therapist that doing such things might acquaint him with different foods and entice him to try them. He doesn't mind handling dry ingredients but having to sink his hand in a dough he has always found highly disturbing.

He realises John doesn't know he has some basic skill in baking—it's just chemistry, after all, and following a recipe. John has many times lamented the fact that neither of them cooks much.

Standing behind his back, Violet reaches around his neck and lets the apron she is holding roll open. She ties the ribbons around his waist and his neck, and Sherlock is glad of his decision to forgo wearing a suit. A bit of flour puffs up as he presses the dough against the side of the bowl.

Mummy is wearing a tweed skirt and a dress shirt underneath her apron. She has always been naturally thin; it's likely that Sherlock gets his raw-boned physique from her side of the family. She wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything but the sort of clothes she had needed for her career as a celebrated author, President of the Royal Economic Society, and professor of Economics at Imperial College business school. After retirement, she is still a regular expert consultant to the House of Lords Economic Affairs Committee. One of the committee's current members, Baroness Bowles of Berkhamstead, is a family friend.

"Where's Natch?" Sherlock asks. It's not small talk—he genuinely wants to know the whereabouts of the one member of the family he's never had trouble interacting with. Natch—short for Fibonacci—is a Labradoodle, already thirteen years old but still going strong. Seeing the dog is one of the nice things about coming to Sussex. There weren't therapy dogs for children in the eighties but a child psychiatrist, after hearing about Sherlock enjoying spending time at a local farm which had horses, had suggested the family might consider a pet. Violet had dismissed the idea because Mycroft was asthmatic and allergic. She had said many times that it was enough work looking after her career and two boys; what was she to do with a dog on top of it all? It was only after Mycroft was no longer living at home and Sherlock had just returned from the Summer Term, and had been struggling with the Fifth Year clinical rotations that a puppy made a sudden appearance at the cottage. His parents had chosen a breed known to be as safe as safe possible for those with allergies—now, coming here for Christmas, Mycroft still has to take an antihistamine every morning when visiting but has grown out of his allergic asthma.

Mummy's explanation for the dog had been that Father had always wanted one, and that they thought Sherlock might benefit from cheering up after having so much trouble with some of his clinical courses. When he pointed out that it wasn't practical to allow the dog to get attached to him when he was returning to Cambridge in August that it turned out Mummy had assumed he was going to drop out. ' _Surely you can't be considering working with patients?_ ' she asked him, ' _I'm sure there are plenty of research opportunities for someone who has undergone the preclinical bits_.' He had informed her in no uncertain terms that they faculty would have to kick him out before he would even consider quitting. It was as though she had been waiting to steer him in some direction she felt was more suited to his deficiencies after watching him struggle.

It only made him fight harder. By the end of the next term, he had earned himself a spot in one of the academic research projects at the neurosurgical unit.

Violet halves a Bramley apple and begins grating it. "We let Natch into the garden just before you arrived. He'll scratch when he wants to come back in."

This marks the end of Sherlock's reserve of small talk. He can hear Father chatting with John about their commute routes in London. If language is supposed to be a means to convey information, why do people waste it on such nonsense? Sherlock kneads the bread with more ferocity, punching it down with some satisfaction.

He's certain that, at some point today, John will try to ask him something more about what happened yesterday. In a way, half of Sherlock is relieved, but the other half is somehow distressed. A part of him dreads the moment because he hates serious conversations laden with expectations, but a part of him likes the idea that the nameless, directionless anxiety simmering at the back his mind would be acknowledged by someone. He’s seen the looks of concern that his husband had directed at him in the car when he knew that Mycroft wasn’t looking. It's logical for John to be worried and to attempt to discuss it, but that puts even more pressure on Sherlock to keep up appearances, to verbalise things he can't quite even process in his own head.

He's not even sure how he _should_ be reacting. How would a normal person feel in his situation? When something as everyday as street crime happens, would they just be sensible about it? Limit the damage, make a police report, then shrug it off and get on with things? It doesn’t feel that way to him, and since he cannot gauge how deeply dysfunctional that makes him, it upsets him further. It must be yet another sign that he isn’t handling life very well at the moment. He almost feels as though he _wants_ to talk about it, but then again, he knows that he will fail at explaining anything to John. _Damned if I do, damned if I don't._ Mainly, he wants to know if John is angry at him for the way he has handled things. Does he blame him and, if yes, then is this the sort of thing he ought to make some sort of amends for?

He should also come up with something to say right now. When he doesn't, his mother invariably turns the discussion to him. She's finished rolling the pastry and interjects before he can think of anything. 

"You look so pale and thin, dear. African food must have not agreed with you."

It's been four months since they returned. He hadn't lost _that_ much weight in Malosa, had he? Although, there was the week during which John was ill and Sherlock's appetite had been decimated… _For heaven's sake, why are we even discussing this?_

He tries changing the subject. "Is that new?" he asks, nodding up towards a worn green Christmas bauble with feathers hanging from the lamp over the kitchen table.

"No, that was your Aunt Alvina's."

 _Nostalgia_. Another thing that eludes him. The ornament is worn and not very stylish even in a vintage context. He receives the roller from his mother and starts flattening the roll of dough with it.

"John should feed you better," she declares next, because God forbid Violet Holmes ever drop a subject matter she has sunk her teeth into.

"John should do what he wants, not run after me."

He steps aside to let Violet begin stamping the edge of the rolled pastry with a snowflake-shaped cutter. After the rest of the pastry has been pressed into shells, she spoons the mincemeat in. "You know what I mean," she warns.

He does know exactly what she is trying to say, because it is a constant refrain from her and has been ever since he left home: _you can't be expected to look after yourself._ It’s why she is so keen on John and their marriage. Not that she understands their relationship, of course. In her eyes, John is not a husband or an equal partner, but rather Sherlock’s care-giver. Next, she'll probably tell John to remind him to brush his teeth properly and to eat his veg.

He decides he's contributed enough to the cooking and washes his hands, grimacing at how bits of dough have stuck to his nail beds. He picks up the nail brush and attacks his fingers until they are bright red. When he turns off the tap, he can make out a faint scratching noise. He leaves the kitchen and goes to the back corridor that leads to the garden entrance and Mycroft's room, and lets in the rain-soaked dog. Not caring whether his dark green cotton dress shirt gets damp, he kneels down and lets the dog lick his face, its tail wagging and thumping against the door frame.

He buries his head in the black, curly fur on the dog's neck and feels a little calmer for the first time today.

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The title is from the Christmas carol "Gabriel's Message"


	4. And Share Our Every Load

 

Time crawls.

Lunch is tiresome: a fish pie Mummy always prepares on Christmas Eve. There's nothing vile about the basic pastry, the potatoes had been of good quality, and Sherlock likes the smoked haddock and fresh cod used for the filling, but he couldn't help picking through the creamy white sauce to push the prawns aside. A shellfish that should be delicately cooked is invariably turned into a form of rubber in his mother’s hands. For the duration of the meal, Father puts on a 1960s Christmas album Sherlock does his best to tune out, though admittedly, the languid crooning of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra is much more tolerable than the pop Christmas ditties played in every public space this time of the year.

After lunch is concluded with chocolates and a slosh of Somerset Cider Brandy in the sitting room, Sherlock gets a brief moment of relaxation lying on the sofa, eyes closed, with his head on John's shoulder. There's a nature program on TV John is probably watching with less than rapt attention; the last time Sherlock had checked, his husband's cheeks were still slightly pinked by the three doses of brandy he's had. With good reason, Sherlock had poured his own into John's glass when no one was looking. Their right hands are perched on the backrest of the sofa, fingers laced. John doesn't do such public displays of affection much in front of other people unless they are friends but, here at the cottage, he has always seemed more comfortable with it than usual. John's fingertips are gently tapping Sherlock's knuckles, and he lets the rhythmic, haptic sensation help himself drift into a relaxed doze.

But, of course Mummy has to descend upon them, waking him up by telling him to scoot over so she could talk to John. "You have him all the rest of the year, so give me a chance now," she prompts.

Sherlock drags himself off the sofa with a bit of a pout. He turns off the TV since it's now showing a rerun of the Varsity Match, and retreats to one of the chairs beside the fire and stares moodily into the flames. Mycroft delivers him a cup of tea he hadn't asked for but accepts. There is always quality tea served in this house.

In the end, his mother's quest for company turns out to be nothing but an excuse to regale John with stories of their family holidays.

"When the boys were young, it was such a frenzy of excitement: there’s nothing like children to bring the Christmas spirit to life. We took the boys to Scotland, once…"

 _Excitement?_ That's not how Sherlock remembers her overzealous attempts at family holiday fun. Sherlock would have preferred to spend Christmas at home, to join his father on the long, quiet countryside walks he so loves, but of course, Mummy had to have other plans. Everything she planned was an acclimatisation exercise, a lesson, a test. Holidays meant village fetes, children's days at country houses, concerts, and family outings requiring hours of enduring Mycroft's company in the backseat of the car. 

Mycroft had told him when he was four that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. Then Sherlock had then been dragged to a Santa’s Grotto for a photograph sitting on the lap of a strange man wearing a costume. Desperately wanting to avoid this, he’d resorted to shouting in the waiting line—within earshot of dozens of parents with their children—that Santa Claus was a lie to make children be good. He'd caused a near riot. Just as well Mummy had been forced to take him home by the other parents. There was no pudding that day, even though the strange man with his fake beard had scared Sherlock, and all he wanted was to get away from the claustrophobic crowds and the overwhelming noise. _'Nobody likes a cynic, William_ ,' she had told him. _'When you're older you will understand what that means_.' Mycroft had naturally wasted no time in telling him that cynic means _'stupid like you_ '. Sherlock suspects he'd been bitter over missing his chance to shove his hand deep into the bowl of sweets Santa's helper elf had been holding.

Sherlock remembers nothing good about that trip to Scotland, either. Mummy is now blathering full-on about it, so he grabs a Financial Times Mycroft has left on the coffee table and tries to read it. Finally, he ends up beating a hasty retreat when the family photo albums come out.

He decides to join his father in the kitchen, taking over drying the dishes that he is washing.

"Too much for you?" George Holmes asks with a hint of a smile.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as he wipes the water glasses. "She persists in thinking that anyone would care about what I did a quarter of a century ago."

"You two boys are still her pride and joy."

He snorts his disagreement. “Mycroft might fit that bill; I’m more the cross she had to bear. Why isn't she interested in anything that's happened _after_ we stopped being children?"

George rinses a salad bowl under the tap. "Well, she doesn't see you that often anymore. Of course, we are interested. Why wouldn't we be? It's just that both of you have such busy lives; it's hard to keep up."

Even if his father doesn't often understand his grievances, at least he makes an effort to listen. "God, if you’d heard what she said to John after dragging all those albums out and finding some ancient holiday photos.”

George hands him another glass. “What’s she said?”

"Telling him about Christmas when I was seven. Do you remember? The Scotland trip?"

"Ah, yes. You had the chicken pox; came down with it on Christmas Eve, as I recall. Were quite poorly for more than a fortnight, totally miserable on your birthday, too, if memory serves. It wasn't much of a holiday for you or for her; she was beside herself with worry."

"She told John that I, quote, ‘ _scratched and screamed and scratched and screamed, with no understanding of the relationship between action and consequence no matter how much we tried to educate him'._ And then she told him how Mycroft's chicken pox had been over in three days, and he didn't complain _once_."

He'd been so small that his recollections aren't very precise but he does remember being ill and being left behind at the hotel with Mummy as Father and Mycroft got to take the car out to explore ruins and castles and museums, as well as Loch Ness which Sherlock had wanted to see because of the monster, never mind that Mycroft kept telling him it was just a legend.

His dad gives a soft laugh. "Mothers… it’s what they do. She does so look forward to having the three of you here for Christmas. Are you embarrassed by what she’s saying?"

He sounds genuinely interested in Sherlock’s reaction, so he tries to answer honestly: "Sometimes, I think she doesn’t realise that I am an adult. And loves to recount to John every childhood incident where I misbehaved or didn’t live up to her expectations."

“That’s a tad unfair, son. I bet every parent has many silly stories they're fond of sharing. Wouldn't you like to hear about what John was like as a boy?"

"If there's anything he wants me to know, he'll tell me. I know him as an adult, and I like him specifically as an adult."

"Maybe she’s telling your husband things about your childhood because she knows that you’re unlikely ever to volunteer them. If anyone deserves to know everything, it’s the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with." George chuckles as he reaches into the soapy water to grab another glass. “She knows all of my secrets. My mum told her everything, warts and all, my boy. It’s all part of sharing your lives."

Sherlock hears John laughing in the sitting room. God knows what she's telling him _now_.

"It’s less _what_ she is telling about me that I object to; more the _way_ she does it." He rubs the outside of the glass rather ferociously to remove a fingerprint that has escaped the attention of his father’s sponge. “She blames me for scratching without realising that, instead of being some dimwit, I knew exactly what I was doing. The pain was better; I could handle that in a way that I couldn’t bear the itching. Maybe that’s different from how Mycroft coped, but it isn’t as _defective_ as she makes it sound." He hates how defensive he sounds.

George twists off the tap and turns to face him, frown lines visible on his features. It suddenly strikes Sherlock how much he seems to have aged in the past year. He looks… tired.

The realisation gives Sherlock a strange sense of urgency—to say or do what, he has no idea.

"All that happened so long ago," George tells him patiently. "What’s got you so worked up _now_? You've seemed on edge ever since the two of you arrived. Did this mugging thing upset you?”

 _'Upset_ '. God, he hates that word. _'Never mind William, he gets so upset over nothing._ ' What does it even mean? If _normal_ people are so good at their damned words, why do they always pick such a belittling, vague one to describe his emotional state? Even he can tell apart anger, sadness, frustration and shock, and everyone else gets to have those and demand respect and acknowledgement, but in this house, it's just ' _William being upset again_ ', and that's it, they just wait for him to snap out of it and behave. _Well, everyone except for John._

" _NO_." It comes out louder and faster than Sherlock had intended, and he realises that, despite his denial, his father will draw the opposite conclusion. Suddenly, he feels exposed and wants to flee. "Can you manage the rest of this? I'll see if John wants to be rescued from her clutches. Even he must have a limit to how many dull childhood stories he can stand, and he's too polite to retreat."

"I’m fine here. Go spend time with John," his dad agrees.

Sherlock starts down the hall to the living room but then stops to listen.

John has just said something that he missed hearing, but Mummy is laughing heartily. "Yes, my dear; at that age, he was constantly being mistaken for a little girl by people who only caught a glimpse of him. His hair was so long because he couldn't stand having it cut. Eventually, I convinced him to let me cut it in the kitchen. Couldn't bear to have anyone else touching his hair, barely even me; he'd have to get up and run outside every five minutes. He cut it himself for most of his teens; oh, there were so many notes from school about that. You see, it's in the Harrow Existing Customs that no pupil should cut their own or another student's hair. Anything that is untidy or draws attention is forbidden. Is he still so fussy about his hair? At least he knows what to do to it, now, to make it look nice."

"I had to wash it for him under strict instructions when he had to wear the halo vest. It was…an education." John doesn't sound like he's making a joke. Instead, he seems to be carefully selecting his words.

"You are a saint, John. When Mycroft told us about his injury, I was so cross. Why wouldn't he tell us himself? I could have come up to London and helped out, so you didn't have to stay home from work."

Preventing the Mummy invasion was _exactly_ why Sherlock had sworn John to secrecy and kept Mycroft in the dark until the very last minute. The very idea of having to deal with her when he was going through that torture and simultaneously trying to work out what was going wrong in his relationship with John—well, it would have been enough to push him into a nervous breakdown for certain.

"He didn't want you to worry, I guess," John suggests circumspectly.

Sherlock hears the words and recognises them as what would be called tactful. This was certainly not his motive in keeping her out of the loop, but John is willing to bend the truth to make her feel better. Right now, Sherlock wouldn't extend her such courtesy. If she dared to ask him directly, he’d tell her the truth.

"You're too kind, John," Mummy says. "No one knows his communication issues better than I do. He's always struggled, even with me, so I don't take it personally any more. Of course, he's gotten better now. Some people won't even notice, I suppose, and that's because we worked so hard with him. We found the most wonderful therapist who taught him to use standard responses instead of echoing things he couldn't understand. The therapist called them magic words—words that would make other people do what William wanted or clarify things without embarrassing him. Phrases such as _'what do you mean_ ' and _'please_ ' instead of repeating things other people said."

John's tone is warm when he replies: "He does seem to add _'please_ ' as an afterthought, as though he's not entirely sure it belongs there."

"It's just that he truly did use them like magic words; they sounded out of place and rehearsed. Is it still that way?"

John's silence is hesitant, even though he can't be aware of Sherlock's eavesdropping. "I guess he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about certain stuff if it means having to resort to that sort of, um, ready-scripted stuff," he finally says.

For some reason, his comment makes Sherlock think about Marie, his regular nurse at the neurosurgical outpatient clinic. She uses clichéd-sounding phrases so easily—as though they flow off the tip of her tongue like water. And, patients believe them, are consoled by them. When she notices that Sherlock is unsure of what to say, she tries to buy him time to find his words, unlike that therapist Mummy was so fond of who made him parrot all these stupid phrases until they were drilled into his skull. During his gap year, when he devoured books about neurodiversity among other medical topics, this approach to fixing his tendency for echolalia and perseveration seemed very counterintuitive. All it did was replace one kind of behaviour which made others uneasy with one that still stood out. ‘ _Wonderful_ ’ is not the word Sherlock would have used to describe the therapist— _drill sergeant_ would have been closer to the truth. At least with Marie, he feels like he's working in a team instead of being schooled. She must want to help him because it makes things run smoother, makes her job easier, but her approach has never felt condescending or judgemental. _Or, maybe I just haven't picked up on that._ It has been established that she likes working with him, could have opted out of being assigned to all of his clinic sessions. He likes having her there, she makes him feel like he has backup.

He hates the fact that Mummy is right in that a certain level of his success in dealing with other people can be attributed to that horrid therapist and other members of the parade of professionals Mummy had unleashed upon him. It had worked, but only because he grew tired and bored with resisting. It's useful, at times, to have those automated patterns to rely on, but he still often struggles to find the right one. Instead of teaching him to understand social interaction, the therapists had taught him cookie-cutter responses. Consequently, when he faces new situations in which those rules wouldn't apply, he can't communicate as well as others. The only approach he has found that works in repelling people from pestering him with their expectations and avoiding such situations is to, well, repel people.

Avoidance and silence—a much better strategy. He'd found himself leaning too much on those scripted methods in medical school during the introductory courses to patient work and medical examination. Rote learning of key phrases got him through the practical exams but only barely, and he was singled out as a struggling student. But, instead of offering him tutoring and support, he faced opposition and doubt from the teaching staff regarding whether he was fit for the only profession he knew truly interested him. He knows that it didn't help that he adamantly refused to declare a need for special arrangements to his university, refused to admit to having any diagnosed learning or communication disability. If he was to graduate as a doctor, he wanted to do it like everyone else. Over his dead body would he let anyone claim they let him off easily, that he lacked abilities other graduates took for granted.

John is talking to his mother again, trying to change the subject. "We didn't get to finish that discussion about Malawi. You should have seen him out there; he could relax, and it was nice to see him do that. They seemed to appreciate his honesty, and his patients were simply grateful. They didn't expect him to speak their local language, and the cultural differences are so obvious that no one noticed anything unusual. They just accepted him for who he is."

John, it’s _always_ John who _sees_ him properly, understands him better than anyone. However testing the conditions had been at Malosa, this part of it—not being constantly reminded of his neuroatypicality—is what had been truly a revelation. But, the emotional high of that experience is now fading fast, and his mother is being particularly good in making it evaporate.

Standing in the hallway, eavesdropping and feeling awkward about everything, brings on yet another flood of memories. Sherlock remembers sitting on the lowest step, listening to Mummy gush at his father about her plans for his future. She had it all mapped out: he was to study chemistry at a reputable university, earn himself a research position in academia—something without teaching responsibilities where he didn't have to deal with people. He was to live within a short distance from Sussex, with a suitable flatmate picked by Mummy who would keep an eye on him. Four days after that conversation, Sherlock cashed in his bank account, packed his things while everybody else was at the shops, and left for London with Victor. He'd shot up for the first time on the train journey with stuff Victor had given him. All he'd done by then had been tablets and snorting coke. _'You need some liquid courage_ ', Victor had joked to him after listening to his rants about other people trying to run his life.

After the Thameslink train pulled up at Blackfriars station, he didn't immediately head for the Tube though Victor was waiting for him at some friend's flat in which they would stay the night. Instead, Sherlock exited the station, dragged his bags to Blackfriars Pier and rested his eyes on the sights and sounds of the river as that day's second dose of cocaine sang in his veins. The third dose—of heroin this time—had made him feel like he might float away in the currents swirling around the pillars of the Blackfriars Railway Bridge. Though the noise, crowds and bustle of London were extremely taxing to put up with due to his sensory issues, during the first months—when things with Victor were still good—he felt like he could breathe for the first time. That he was free to do what he wanted.

As much as he tries to focus on that moment, the memories that always follow sour his delight. Eventually, Victor began spending much more time with heroin and his sales contacts than he did with Sherlock. Their funds ran out since Victor was using more than he was selling, and eventually, the realisation sunk in with Sherlock that the way they were living was not sustainable or very intellectually stimulating. London's libraries became his haven, and without even realising it at first, he began reading his way through the medical shelves. Not the books aimed for the general public, but the textbooks and the research journals. Chemistry was interesting, but the thought of applying it and various other natural sciences to solve real problems, to fix people, became a near-obsession. As his friendship with Victor deteriorated, a nagging thought regarding medicine made a home: what if he could do it? Not just the science in the background as Mummy had proposed, but taking that knowledge and applying it to a living human, perhaps even revealing a suffering brain within its bony cradle and fixing it. He had always been good with his hands—not artistically, but his violin study successes and his habit of deconstructing objects such as alarm clocks and the remote control and putting them perfectly back together before anyone even noticed—surely all that had to mean that he had the dexterity required?

Once the rehab was over, he breezed through the requisite theoretical undergraduate courses which marked the first years of medical study, and his professors appreciated his abilities even if his peers didn't. But, what the powers-that-be in the faculty couldn't agree on was whether he should ever be trusted to interact with the patient population. Speculation on his mental health and neuropsychiatric makeup, especially his communication issues and other people skills were the subject of countless meetings which sprouted up wherever he went, even if he adamantly refused to discuss his diagnosis. If he hadn't been so talented in research and with his hands, Sherlock is certain that they would have all shown him the door. Some professors tried their best to do precisely that.

He envies John, who knows how to slot himself into all kinds of social situations, to slip into an expected role like changing his shirt from one suited for work to a festive one. For him, medical school had been an intensely social and wonderful experience, shared with peers who became close friends. The evidence is there today, too. Whisky with father-in-law, cocktails with the neighbours, lunches with colleagues, small talk with the Ocado man delivering their weekly grocery order... To Sherlock, these supposedly easy, relaxing endeavours are nothing but failure-prone tests to destruction. It is worse here in this house, where he has never been expected to succeed, and it keeps him on edge, whereas John seems able to relax and be happy to be pampered by his family. He finds some contentment in seeing John happy but can't escape the notion that the whole thing underlines his own alienation. John is the ideal son-in-law, fulfilling Mummy’s needs. Sometimes Sherlock feels like his husband belongs here more than he does.

John is on his side; he knows this. But, listening to his mother habitually offering her sympathies about having to ' _cope_ _with Sherlock'_ is more than he can bear. Today, for reasons he doesn’t even understand, it all feels particularly suffocating.

He turns away from the living room and heads back into the kitchen. "I’m going to take Natch out for a walk. Clear my head a bit." 

At hearing his name and the word ' _walk_ ', the old black dog launches out of his bed by the Welsh dresser and is soon dancing about with delight by the coat rack, weaving himself in and out of Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock grabs his old wellies and his father’s wax coat, puts the dog’s collar on and then the slip lead. 

His father calls out: "Mind how you go; pretty muddy out there on the Common. And, it won’t be long before dark."

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the Christmas carol _Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming_.


	5. In Tempest, Storm and Wind

Sherlock crosses the empty road and heads straight for the footpath through the bare-limbed trees. There are a few pines but, at this time of the year, there is little cover and the wind is blustery. The way it bites at Sherlockdoesn’t seem to bother Natch; the half-Lab never appears to be discouraged by a bit of wintry weather. The Common will be empty of other walkers at this time: late afternoon is descending into twilight. The rest of the villagers will be settling down for their Christmas eve festivities.

Leaving the trees, he reaches the open moor. The bracken is brown, beaten down by the hard frost, so he gets a clear view across it to the trees that line Lewes Road. He bends at the waist to release the slip lead, and Natch ambles away, enjoying the freedom. Sherlock wishes he could do the same—shake off the leash that his family puts on him the second he walks in the cottage door. Mummy had never willingly allowed him to wander on the Common on his own until he was well into his teens, but in the school holidays, he used to sneak out every so often to enjoy the night wildlife. It had been one of the things he’d liked the most about their house in Malawi, being surrounded by the night sounds as he stood on the back terrace.

When he catches up with Natch, the dog has his head down in a hole, sniffing out the latest news in rabbit traffic. Sherlock has always admired such canine focus and tried to imagine what the world would be like if his own sense of smell were a hundred thousand times more acute. He can effortlessly recall Mycroft’s superior tone when, aged ten, he’d asked that question of his brother: ' _You’d be overwhelmed is what would happen. You can hardly stand a human’s sense of smell; having a nose that sensitive would put freak you out for sure. You should be happy that you aren’t a dog_.'

Bringing that memory to mind doesn’t help his current mood. He shoves his hands into his father’s old waxed jacket and finds a biscuit. Realising he can no longer see the dog, he whistles to Natch who soon bounds back up to him and sits, expecting his reward for obedience.

"Take it." The treat disappears into the dog’s mouth without even the sound of a crunch. He's been well-trained; won't take the biscuit until seated and explicitly given permission. "Good boy; off you go."

Watching Natch wander off down the path grates oddly on Sherlock’s nerves. This is what his family wants from him—trust, devotion, cheerful obedience. To be a _good boy_. At the moment, he feels envious of the dog being oblivious of the cost of such loyalty.

Another five minutes of hard walking brings him to the gravel car park, from where he crosses the North Common Road, heading almost due east, deeper into the bracken and scrubby gorse. Another ten minutes in and it's no longer possible to make out any human sounds from the village. As a child, he used to love spending time on this part of the Sussex heathland.

The sun has set below the treeline and is turning the underside of the low clouds deep pink. It's not a dusky shade whispering of snow, but a sharp one that creates a backdrop against which the bare trees look skeletal and ominous. He knows that he should turn back because it will soon be dark, but the temptation to postpone even thinking about returning to the cottage wins.

He follows the path down a small hollow. About three hundred meters further on, the path disappears into a belt of trees that surrounds a pond. This is a game trail of sorts, and that makes him think of Africa. The bush in Malawi had been much lusher than this, but it, too, had trails made by animals as well as people. The high reeds close to water sources could hide anything from zebras to rhinos, which is why one had to be accompanied by an armed guard in the national parks. _No such perils here_ , he reminds himself. The only properly dangerous animals in these parts—adders—will be hibernating in this cold.

He’s trying to spot Natch ahead, but it is getting increasingly hard to tell a black dog apart from the dark undergrowth. Suddenly, there is a crash of bracken right beside him and a shape bursts out across the path, directly in front of him. Reflexively, he ducks and shies sideways—so startled that he missteps and ends up slipping on the dirt path. He lands hard on his hip, breath momentarily knocked out of his lungs. A half-strangled shout of dismay escapes from his mouth as he is seized by a fear that keeps him pinned to the ground. For a split second, he is back in London, face being shoved against the wall, a knife being thrust at him, and an accented voice saying: ' _cough up, posh boy, if you know what’s good for you_ '. It all floods back: flashes of light, shards of glare off the metal fence along the railway embankment, the sharp scent of his sweat breaking out in fear, then a flare of pain.

He can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t move, paralysed by the scene replaying in his head. And, layers appear: images of previous attacks overlaid onto this most recent one. A kaleidoscope of leering faces, relishing his fear and submission—university boys, Harrow classmates, then even younger ones in simpler school uniforms. His reaction is instinctive: to curl into a ball, face pressed against his arms, fingers digging into the curls at the back of his head.

 _Breathe_ , he tells himself, but he doesn't even know if he has spoken it out loud or if it's just a thought. The letters of the word jumble together and taste coppery and cold. He tries still his racing pulse, to suck oxygen into his lungs. He peels his fingers off his head and digs them into the ice-cold mud of the path, trying to ground himself in the present. What finally breaks the hold of the flashback is another deer charging through the bracken following the path of the first one that had startled him so badly. This hind is much younger and looks terrified as it springs away from him in a panic mirroring his own. He manages to get to his knees and then realises that he has dropped Natch’s lead somewhere. Trying to find it in the darkness is a fool's errand. He doesn't have a torch or even a phone. _Stupid, so stupid!_

After climbing to his shaky feet, Sherlock whistles for the dog, hoping that it has not been tempted to chase the deer. About a minute later, he sees the dark form come running up the path towards him, and he calls out to the dog, annoyed by how shaky his voice sounds. He drops to his knees, not caring about the state of his trousers, and wraps his arms around the warm form of an animal that is happy for the attention. He concentrates on the sensation of the fluffy fur against his cheek, and eventually stops feeling too terrified to start walking.

"Heel, Natch. That’s a good boy; I’m afraid I’ve lost your lead and will have to come back tomorrow in the light to find it. Now we’ve got to get home." He doesn't mind having to keep the dog close to him, occasionally grabbing hold of his collar; the contact feels reassuring.

Uncertain of exactly where he is on the common, Sherlock listens for the sound of cars. The dog falls into step beside him as he takes the left-hand fork. If he can make it to Beggar’s Wood Road, then he’ll be able to follow the road back to the cottage. It’s the long way around, nearly doubling the distance, but it will be safer, with less chance of being pushed into another panic attack by the local wildlife.

How will he explain away his delay in getting back? Everything is going to be so embarrassing when he gets back to the cottage. If he says that he lost track of time, there will be yet another maternal lecture on his shortcomings. He’s shaking with adrenaline, and the shame of what had happened still has him by the throat. He can only hope that it will be gone by the time he reaches the cottage.

 _I'm being ridiculous_. Being alone on the Common at night has never upset him like this before, and he'd never felt this way in Malawi at night time. Who else does he have to blame for this than himself, for letting the muggers have their way with him, and his family to affect him in equal measure? Why does he let them get to him like this, and why would he revert to reacting to danger as though he was still a child? Why are all these things coming back to him, now?  
  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
"Where is that boy?!"

Violet has come into the room, glaring at the three men sitting there. John has no idea how to answer, because he doesn’t want to land Sherlock in trouble. The undercurrents of family friction are something he is all too aware of; no need to add fuel to the fire. The Holmes matriarch has been pacing restlessly for some time, now as the sun has set.

 _Mothers and their sons._ John had gotten on well enough with his, the source of conflict in his family having come from the paternal side. Not for the first time, he is relieved that Sherlock has never had the chance to meet his parents, who died years ago; Harry is enough of a trial. He can imagine his embarrassment if Sherlock had ever met Robert Watson—a wreck of a man who had wreaked havoc on his family, kicking out a daughter for being a lesbian, shortening his mother’s life through domestic abuse, driving John to flee to the south to escape into medical school and then Afghanistan. God knows what the old man would have made of John getting married to a bloke. He’s relieved that it is one hurdle the two of them will never have to face.

In comparison, John had been first relieved and then delighted by the Holmes’ reaction to him and their marriage. When Sherlock had brought him to Sussex for the first time, Violet had stopped in the foyer, beaming at the sight of the two of them. _'Oh, look at your handsome doctor,_ ' she said to Sherlock, then strode over to hug John. She had laughed when John had glanced at his partner and plucked up the courage to joke that there were two of those in the room. He feels accepted and their relationship validated by a family whose opinions do matter to Sherlock, however hard he might protest that notion.

 _If they didn't, they wouldn't be getting under his skin like this._ John knows his partner well enough to easily recognise his defensive mode. And, John can hardly blame Sherlock for being on edge—Violet seems to be on his case particularly hard this year. It's as though she is under an unprecedentedly frantic compulsion to ensure everyone has a picture-perfect traditional Christmas.

Mycroft looks up from his laptop. He’s been working for the past hour, sitting beside the log fire. "According to Father, Sherlock took Natch out for a walk on the Common."

"I _know_ that, Mikey, but this is ridiculous." She gestures angrily at the darkness outside the window. "You’ll just have to go find him."

"Can’t. I have to get this mess of a spreadsheet from my CFO sorted within the next hour. He’s completely missing the point that we need to make to the board about the growth potential of the Indonesian market for our cardiovascular sector."

"It’s getting so late. He _knows_ we always cut the Christmas cake at tea and it’s already a quarter past four."

Violet sounds annoyed, but John can pick up the urgency of maternal worry underneath.

George is sitting next to John. At her tone, he folds the newspaper he’s been quietly reading. "In this weather, I was happy to let his younger legs cope. Don’t wait, my dear. You know he’ll only have a mouthful, if any; he doesn’t like Christmas cake, or Christmas pudding for that matter. Something about all those dried fruits macerated in alcohol puts him off," he gently reminds his wife.

She gives a rather histrionic sigh and John stifles a smile because it sounds so much like Sherlock. He doesn't like brandy or fruit liquors, and most citrus-flavoured things put him off as well unless it's a dessert involving fresh fruit. He'll have champagne, or a wine-based cocktail in a pinch, but usually consumes very little alcohol. He'd probably never admit to it, but John has seen the evidence with his own eyes, so he strongly suspects the reason for his near-abstinence is that inebriation reveals a slight lisp he can otherwise control perfectly.

"Him and his food issues," Violet complains. On her way back to the kitchen, she catches John’s eye. "Keep me company? I’d appreciate a hand in bringing in the tea things."

John wonders if this will degenerate into another chance for her to complain about Sherlock and tries to muster some sympathy. The only woman in a household of men, she’s probably not had a lot of back-up in the past. George seems willing to chip in with things now that he is retired, but John knows that Mycroft is almost never in the country these days and seems to have taken a line of keeping his head down this Christmas. The board presentation in Basel after the New Year has already been raised as his excuse to be semi-detached from the proceedings. And, Sherlock is avoiding Mummy even more studiously than usual. Walking the dog may be relieving his father of a chore, but Violet will only see it as yet another slight by her youngest.

As they enter the kitchen, John asks Violet, "Would you like me to go find him?"

She points to the kitchen table and John starts loading a tray with china tea cups and side plates. "No, my dear. It’s pitch black out there; you’d get lost in a moment since you're not familiar with the area. He knows the land, but if I know him, he’s taken the dog right over to the far side of the Common, despite the fact that it’s a total quagmire. He has no sense, that boy. Never has, never will." Fishing a handful of dainty pastry forks out the drawer, she hands them over.

John tries to moderate his tone to convey his amusement. "That _boy_ is thirty-five years old. I’m not sure he’d appreciate the term."

"Then maybe he should start acting like an adult, if he wants to be treated like one. Never spares a thought for the trouble we go to. Doesn't he realise things happen, and none of us know how many family holidays like this we have left?" She shakes her head.

John can't quite relate to her anger; why does it seem to matter so particularly intensely to her this year if Sherlock misses tea and cake?

Placing the iced Christmas cake on a pedestal stand, Violet sighs. "This mugging business is a case in point that he hardly even thinks of himself, let alone others, isn’t it? What was he thinking, wandering off into some horrid sink estate?"

"I'd probably have walked the distance, too; Royal Oak's very close to Paddington, and it was daylight."

"You're so kind to him but he's not like you; you could handle yourself in a spot of bother. He’s still my son and I worry about him when he takes ridiculous risks like that."

"So says every mother," John placates softly, ripping open the packet of Christmas-themed paper napkins she gives him. "Mine did the same. Called me a daft bugger for wanting to go to university and do medicine, and you should have heard her on the subject of the army and Afghanistan."

"I would have loved to have met her." Violet sounds wistful.

The kettle is boiling so she starts to fill the pot with loose tea from the caddy. John is grateful for the momentary distraction. He tries to imagine the clash of class and culture if the two mothers had ever met. His had become a Mum and a housewife straight out of school, took a part-time job to compensate for her failure of a husband drinking up his wages, and then had to work full-time as a primary school teaching assistant when his dad had been made redundant. Carol Watson would have been so intimidated by Violet’s three university degrees, her academic reputation, and her economic policy career which had brought international recognition. John doubts his mum would have been willing to even open her mouth in her presence, let alone to invite Violet over to her small council flat for tea. There were no iced, homemade cakes at Christmas in the Watson home—money was tight and most of it was drunk away by his dad, so they were lucky to get cheap chocolates and a plastic-wrapped pudding from Asda on Christmas day.

John trails behind Violet to the sitting room, helps her dole out the offerings and takes a seat on the sofa with his own slice of cake and steaming mug. Violet ends up standing behind George's chair, absent-mindedly patting both his shoulders and then giving him a very brief hug from behind. They have never been a very demonstrative couple, and the surprising gesture makes John wonder if it's because Violet truly thinks a walk with a dog is reason enough to be so beside herself with worry that she needs consolation.

After he's finished with his tea, John goes to the window. He tries to peer into the darkness but all he can really see are the reflections from the lighting in the room.

"A sherry, John?" Mycroft offers, bottle already in hand.

"Yes, thank you," John replies, and gets back into his chair. He needs to believe that Sherlock can look after himself, because in this house, not many seem to share that sentiment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen"


	6. Long Lay the World in Sin and Error Pining

 

  
Sherlock sneaks into the boot room first, hoping to find something to wipe off the worst of the mud. About half a mile from home, he'd come up with an explanation for his state and the delay in his return. It’s a lie, of course, but more believable to the others than the truth. The last thing he wants to do is confess that he’d had a near panic attack brought about by an encounter with a couple of deer. 

He fumbles around in the dark for the boot jack and a towel.

"Is that you, William?"

 _That name again._ It’s annoying how often she forgets.

Before he has a chance to get his wellingtons off, the door between the boot room and the kitchen is thrown open and bright light floods in. Natch sees this as a chance to scoot past Mummy into the kitchen, just as Sherlock shouts, " _NO!_ "

Too late. The dog gives one almighty shake and every drop of mud clinging to its fur is catapulted off at speed—onto Violet, the floor, the walls, and anything in the trajectory up to three meters away.

" _OH!?_ " Mummy’s eyes fly wide open in shock, swiftly followed by dismay as she glances down at the greyish spatters across her otherwise pristine white apron. There are a few spots of mud on her face, too.

It might have been funny, but Sherlock knows better than to laugh. He has absolutely no idea what words he can offer her.

Her face goes from shocked white to red with fury in what seems an impossibly short time, and his medical training makes him wonder how such a thing is even possible.

" _FIBONACCI!!!_ Oh, William, you idiot! How could you let him in like this?"

"I didn’t. You did, by opening the door." The pitch of his voice is high, and a little shaky.

"Don’t you argue with me! It’s your fault, coming back late and looking like you’ve been dragged through a bog. Your head must have been in the clouds again, just like it always is! Why can’t you ever, just once, do something simple like walking the dog without it becoming a disaster?" She reaches into a plastic box below the coat hooks and drags out a big, torn towel. "Natch! Get over here this instant or you will be spending the holiday locked in the woodshed."

At her shouting, Natch had headed straight for his bed which is tucked under a side table. There in the shadows, he is still cowering down. He pokes only his head out when she calls his name one more time.

"Natch, _here_." She points down at the floor in front of Sherlock and the dog crawls out, looking very guilty.

She thrusts the towel into Sherlock’s hands and says, through clenched teeth: "Clean him up. Then this floor—the cabinets, too—while I go try to make myself presentable again. Then go get changed yourself. You have done quite enough to disrupt our Christmas Eve." She unties her apron and dumps it on a chair on her way out.

As he wraps the towel around the wriggling dog with the shaking hands he had been hiding in the pockets of his father's coat, Sherlock murmurs: "I think we’re both in the doghouse, Fib."

It’s his own name for the canine, used only when they are both in trouble.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
After retreating to his old bedroom, Sherlock has barely gotten his muddy trousers off when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs.

John pushes the door open, peeking in with that one peculiar expression of his that hasn't quite decided if it wants to be worry or amusement. "What was that just now?"

"Nothing," Sherlock mutters from inside the dress shirt he is pulling off over his head—he hadn't bothered to open the buttons.

"But I heard shouting?" John steps in properly, closing the door behind him. It's a bad sign: it means he intends to initiate some sort of a conversation.

Sherlock drops his dirty clothes on a pile on a bare part of the floor. He'll take them down to the laundry basket tomorrow, when Mummy isn't looking and won't start another bout of nagging. Standing now in just his pants and his undershirt, he suddenly finds he can't remember what he was supposed to do next. His thoughts feel scattered, and he worries that he won't be able to avoid John's attempt at picking through his mounting anxiety. He both wishes John would go _and_ that he would stay—but only if he says nothing, makes no implicit demands by saying he wants to know what's wrong.

_I'd tell you if I knew. I'd tell you if I could. If I knew how._

He glances longingly at the unmade bed; his hip hurts from where he fell, and he desperately wants to crawl into bed, block out the world and try to will himself to calm down, maybe even sleep. But, the universe isn't kind enough to grant him that. He needs to go downstairs, play nice even if the thought of that feels utterly impossible right now.

John's appearance upstairs is really not good; Mummy will suspect there is something he is worried about regarding Sherlock, and such things will add fuel to the fire of her need to pick at him, to watch him like a hawk.

"Sherlock?" his husband asks, picking some of his clothes up from the floor.

He has a sudden urge to snap at John to leave them, to stop doing things for him, to stop making it look like he needs help, like he can't do these things on his own, like he can't cope.

 _Then again, what would that change?_ In this house he has always been, and always will be, a liability.

"I'll be down in a minute," Sherlock mutters, kneeling down to quickly pull out his suitcase from underneath the bed. He starts a frantic rummage in it for his jeans and the black, non-itchy cotton-weave cardigan he's almost sure he had packed. "Just go and keep them happy," he tells John after finding the jeans. He starts tugging them on, nearly stumbling in the process.

He knows he's speaking fast, and his pitch is higher than usual. It's escalating agitation, and he hopes that John won't pick up on it. He turns slightly away so that John can't spot the clumsiness of his hands as he tries to tuck his undershirt neatly under the jeans. He never gets like this at work; his specialty is highly stressful, but the pressure of a demanding surgical case _helps_ him focus instead of wrecking his concentration like this.

But of course he does, John always notices. Soon, there's a hand gripping Sherlock's shoulder that keeps him from leaning forward and continuing the salvage operation for his cardigan.

"Did she tell you to go to your room or something?" John jokes, but his gentle, teasing smile disappears when Sherlock won't meet his gaze.

There are two warring factions within Sherlock, now: one that is telling him that he can do this, just like he's done this every bloody year of his life. _Just stiff up the lip, ignore them all, and get through it_ , he tells himself, but none of it sounds very convincing in his head. The other half of him wants to wrap his arms around John's neck and beg him to take him home, their _real_ home, the one that's just for the two of them.

"She's getting on my nerves. It just got dark faster than I realised." Sherlock takes a step backwards, and John lets go of his elbow. Sherlock kneels down, tries to find socks and realises he hadn't packed any—apart from the one pair he was wearing and which must now be soaked since it's somewhere inside the trouser legs of the pair he's just taken off.

He can't find the cardigan. He must have not packed it.

"I think she just got a bit worried, that's all," John suggests.

"And you didn't," Sherlock accuses, rising to his feet. "You didn't, because you shouldn't, because you don't have any reason to." When the words are out of his mouth, he realises he's said too much too fast and too un-eloquently. "I tripped because it was slippery and dark, and I got knocked over by the dog. _Good enough an explanation_?"

John raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, yeah, sorry. I guess asking if you're okay is out of the question then, too?"

"I'm borrowing your socks," Sherlock announces, and grabs a pair from John's suitcase. They're not _that_ small for him. "And yes, for once, I'd prefer that the matter of whether I'm alright at any given time is nobody's business but mine."

John crosses his arms. "You do realise that actually _answers_ my question?"

Sherlock slumps down to sit on the bed, the socks in hand, gaze determinedly fixed on a broken bit of skirting board near the door. _Put the socks on. Go downstairs. Get it together._

John leans down on his haunches before him so that Sherlock couldn't evade his gaze. "You don't think I can't _see_ when you're upset? After everything we've been through together, I know that it's so hard for you to talk about, well, _anything_ when you're not okay, but I just wish I knew what to do except to _ask_. I want to help, but I just get the cold shoulder when I try to talk to you. I know it's because you're trying to process things on your own but sometimes—oftentimes—that doesn't work! If there's anything I can do, anything you need me to do, all I need is a sign, _some_ sort of sign so that I can do something instead of just feeling this useless."

Sherlock suddenly wishes that John would be angry at him the way normal couples get angry at each other, instead of trying to be patient and understanding. John’s being infuriatingly accommodating and maybe thinking that Sherlock is being _weird_ because that's the way he it's, and it's got a diagnosis number.

Sherlock has never been good at accepting sympathy, because he always suspects it's dripping with pity and condescension. He's sure it's there, that he simply is bad at spotting it because for him, such things are like trying to read between the lines of some foreign language. How often _does_ John think like that about him? _He did go see Doctor Pichler, didn't he? He went to see her so that he could blame everything that I do wrong in our relationship and with other people–––_

"Just _stop_ , Sherlock pleads. "Just don't––be like that." He flaps his wrist in frustration. A cold hand is gripping his guts, choking his neck. _Demands, demands, demands…_ "Please don't be angry," he adds. He hates arguing with John. He hates it, because he always feels like he's bound to lose because he can't deduce very well why John feels the way he does at any given time. God, he wants to have an argument like anybody else with John, with his mother, just _one_ damned argument during which he'd be taken seriously in this house. But he can't find the words to do it.

John stares at him in disbelief. "Why would I be angry?"

Sherlock rubs his closed lids with the tips of his fingers. "I don't want to talk. About anything."

"Then what–––" John stands up, dropping his hands to his sides. "–– _do_ you want?"

"To get through tonight, somehow." Sherlock knows the statement is too abstract to be informative. He has no idea what he expects John to do to achieve such a thing as a bearable evening in this household.

John frowns at him, fingers twitching against his thigh, possibly because he wants to approach Sherlock, to initiate some sort of physical contact and is being hurt by the assumption that it wouldn't be welcome. Finally, he nods. He also clasps his hands behind his back, tilts up his chin. _Soldier_ , his stance says; _I have your back_. "Okay," John says quietly.

A sudden flood of affection hits Sherlock for this man who has been willing to upend all traditional expectations of a chosen romantic partner is supposed to behave. He reaches out his hand, and John takes it, sitting down on the bed next to him. Just a lean sideways, and John's arms circle around his waist from the back, allowing Sherlock to lean his back against John's chest. He places his left hand on top of John's on his belly, irrationally glad that they're both wearing their proper wedding bands instead of just sporting their tattoos. Mummy had disapproved of that idea, which had made Sherlock even more pleased than before that he had suggested it.

"This is…" he mutters, eyes drifting closed for a moment. This is the calmest he's felt since the incident on the heath, but it is still far from what anyone would class as alright. "…good."

Not very eloquent, but he is certain John will get his meaning. His thoughts feel like the pieces of a puzzle poured onto a table, the task of trying to order them depressingly herculean.

Suddenly, there's a very loud clatter of dishes downstairs, and he instinctively slams his hands on his ears, a sudden disorientation hitting as his residual anxiety—barely kept in check by a need to conceal it—returns with a vengeance. He curses inwardly: if such a small thing, one he would have no trouble ignoring otherwise, can now reduce him to a bundle of raw nerves, he's more riled up still than he had thought. It seems that he has used up all his energy trying to keep it together in front of his mother.

There's an overwhelming need to stim, to rock or to slap his hand against his thigh, but it won't be enough. He's gone stiff as a board, shaking again.

He hates himself like this. Especially in front of John.

He digs his fingertips into his hair, pressing down so hard it becomes painful. His left forefinger accidentally finds one of the scars left behind by the halo screws, and he shudders at the sudden sensory recollection. Black dots dancing in his visual field, he fights a rising nausea. There's a pulsing, throbbing sound in his ears that's bound to be his own heartbeat.

Maybe he says something, maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's John's name, and it must have sounded quite pathetic. Somehow, they end up lying in the dark on the bed, John spooning him from the behind, arms tightly around him, his legs trapped underneath John's knee. The weight of his limbs is calming, like a heavy blanket.

Without a conscious decision to do so, Sherlock starts tapping his fingertips against those of the hand that's squeezing him against John's chest, and the precision the task requires eventually helps him bring himself into focus—a bit like turning the screw on his surgical microscope sharpens the view. He wonders if such a habit could be plausibly explained away just as some idle thing anyone might do. He doubts it, not when he's in such a state of mind that John would become worried.

To his dismay, John soon makes his stimming into a game, trying to lace his fingers with Sherlock's fidgety ones. Sherlock loses, and John brings their joined hands to press against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock turns them slightly so that he can grind his knuckles against his sternum a little—just enough to provide the requisite discomfort to ground himself. John would think it a bit not good, using pain for this purpose. It's always been the alternative to stimming, and Sherlock had never quite seen it in as pathological a light as everyone else. _It's just pain_. _It works; it doesn't mean anything._

Now that the fog of panic is subsiding, Sherlock is certain that John is about to burst from all the questions he must have. But, because he's John, he refrains from asking them. He respects Sherlock's wishes and opinions and feelings even when nobody else in this bloody house does. His husband understands him well enough not to demand words when they're eluding him, since his command of language is, at the best of times, flimsy when it comes to emotion.

They lie quietly for some minutes, after which Sherlock feels as though maybe, just _maybe_ , he can get through tonight.

He extricates himself, sits up, and tells John: "If you really want to help even more, then let’s go clean up the kitchen."  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


It's five minutes to six when Sherlock hurries to take a seat in a hard chair against the wall, leaving the one by the fire for John. He prefers this positioning because it leaves a buffer between him and his mother.

The television has been turned on and the volume turned up, as a boy treble starts: "' _Once in royal David’s city…_ '"

Soon, Mummy also returns to the living room, now dressed in a different skirt and a mint green cardigan. She has touched up her make-up and her hair looks as though it has received an extra layer of fixing spray.

"Oh, there you are, darling," George says. "I was beginning to wonder. Not like you to miss the carols at King's." George pats the sofa beside him and Violet drops into it.

A quick glance around the room, and she mutters: "Oh. You're already here," when she spots Sherlock.

Mycroft answers. "John helped him clean up. I gather the return of the prodigal was something of a mud-bath." He's ignoring the television since his attention is still focused on his laptop, but his feet are propped up now on a footstool. 

On screen, the camera has panned to the face of a young boy, perhaps as young as eight or nine, who is singing solo the first verse, his precise, pure tones being heard by a television audience of millions. The candlelit chapel of Cambridge's King's College is packed, its vaulted and ribbed ceiling and stunning stained-glass windows providing the backdrop for the start of England’s traditional Christmas Eve.

Violet sighs. "That first Christmas we went up to see him and attended the choral service. Such a treat."

As the first verse ends, the rest of the choristers join in.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Sometimes, I think you pushed him into King's just so you could attend."

She sniffs. "He should have auditioned for the choir. He’s always had a fine singing voice and King's could have given him a wonderful experience with all the public performances, since he was never going to play violin professionally. Such a waste, forgoing even the college's own orchestra."

George chuckles amicably. "King's has fine medical training, too, my dear, and that’s what he wanted. Oxford suited Mycroft better, but Cambridge was right for our Will–– _Sherlock_."

They are doing what they always do; talking about him as if he isn’t in the room. Sherlock tries to focus on the music, but there are only a few closing notes left before the service moves on to the first of the lessons, read by a chorister: Genesis three, verses eight to nineteen. Sherlock is hoping that the others will ignore him, focus on the broadcast, but his mother’s eyes have shifted away as the television from the reading of scripture goes on.

She raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. "Now that you, me, the dog, and the kitchen have been cleared of mud, would you care to enlighten us all? How on earth did you manage to get so dirty?"

Having to explain how he had been frightened into a panic attack because a startled deer brought on a flashback about the mugging is never going to happen. The fib has to come out now, and he’s had enough time to rehearse it in his head. "One thing about a black dog on a dark night—he can’t see you, either. I whistled him back, but his nose isn’t all that precise when it comes to locating someone. Ran straight into me and we ended up in a heap in a puddle. Oh, and in the collision, I lost his lead. I’ll have to go back and get it tomorrow."  He hopes that Fib’s sense of justice is not aggrieved at this white lie.

Mycroft snorts. "The blind leading the blind…"

John glares at the snide comment. "It’s easy enough to say, but then, perhaps you wouldn’t know. How often have you walked a dog, especially at night?" His tone is biting, and Sherlock hopes that John won't end up voicing the suspicions he'd had upstairs about Sherlock's state of mind. Nevertheless, he's relieved that John is taking part in the conversation—it means that Sherlock doesn't have to face all the imminent criticism alone.

Mummy leaps to Mycroft’s defence: "He’s allergic to the hair of most dog breeds. John, you may not have known that when William got into a bit of trouble with his professors at Cambridge; we thought he would have seen sense and found something else to do with his time. On the advice of others, we got him a dog, which is why Natch is here. But, it wasn’t easy to find a breed that would set allergies off less than usual, and the burden of looking after him has fallen on George ever since."

"It’s not a burden, my dear. You know we always had dogs in my family and I admit I have wanted one, so Natch was a perfect choice. And, he gives me an excuse to take some good exercise. Now that he's no longer an endlessly energetic puppy, I'm very happy to do the walks." George looks over to where Sherlock is perched on the chair and gives him a conspiratorial smile.

Sherlock suspects some of that comment may be exaggeration; in arguments, when Mycroft and Mummy gang up on him, it's always Father who plays the diplomat.

"I forgot to warn you that Natch's eyesight isn't as good as it used to be; he’s getting old like me. Shame that dogs can’t get glasses," George adds.

Mummy is scrutinising Sherlock closely, and he feels awkward under her gaze. "You weren't hurt, were you? Now that you’ve cleaned the mud off, your face looks even worse than it was before," she points out. "Did you get yourself checked out after the mugging? There's nothing broken, is there? John, did you check him out?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes but can't hide the flinch when the bruised muscles around his left orbital socket complain.

"He knows facial anatomy better than I do," John says and rolls his bad shoulder in an arc. The old mattress in Sherlock's bedroom can't be doing it any favours.

"That medical education Father mentioned means that I know bruising takes time to come out. What you are noticing is the normal progression. A left-over from yesterday," Sherlock explains, trying to speak slowly and patiently but still ends up sounding strained and impatient.

Mummy tuts. "You seem to be more accident-prone the older you get. I don’t remember dyspraxia being an issue when you were younger, despite what all the books said."

 _I'm hardly dyspraxic if I'm a bloody neurosurgeon!_ "Not everything relates to neurological differences. That, too, is something I have learned as a result of becoming a doctor. Now, shall we change the subject?" If this is said in a tone of voice louder than he might have wished, he can blame the fact that the Kings choir is now belting out the second verse of ' _In Dulci Jubilo_ ' _._ Sherlock knows he will never be the best of boys, not for her, but that is no reason to rub his nose in it.

He gets up and pulls the fire-screen aside so that he can put another log on the fire. "Might as well stoke up the fire; it’s going to be a long and cold night."   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from "O Holy Night".


	7. Bearing Gifts We Traverse Afar.…

 

By supper time, Sherlock knows the night is going to be interminable.

The sideboard is groaning with food, most of which he detests, especially since Mycroft's Swiss patés have been given pride of place on the central platter. It is surrounded by baskets of toast, crisp biscuits, and various salads. Mummy loves mayonnaise, which is liberally used to coat almost every vegetable on offer. What isn't smothered in it has been doused in a sharply acidic, store-bought vinaigrette dressing, the unbalanced flavours of which always catch on the back of Sherlock's throat and make him cough. In contrast, the version he and John sometimes make at home uses twenty-five-year-old balsamic vinegar from Modena, Italy—frightfully pricey but worth every penny for the exquisite depth of flavour and a thick, luxurious feel in the mouth. On the left of the paté platter sits a plate of cold-smoked Alaskan salmon sliced wafer thin, with a garnish of lemon wedges and fresh dill; on the right, there is cold ham, encircled by a necklace of cherry tomatoes. 

Sherlock chooses to go last in the queue, in the vain hope that Mummy won't pass judgment on the limited amount on his plate if everything on offer has already been sampled. He takes one slice of salmon, one of ham, half a boiled egg that had been put on the paté platter as a garnish, one slice of tomato and a few mixed green leaves which had been spared of the condiment tsunami. He does like Mummy's plum chutney, so he puts a generous dollop on the side of his plate.

She gives him a pointed glance as he makes his way to his usual seat. "Really; that wouldn't keep a bird alive. You have to at least try one of the patés, after all the trouble your brother goes to getting the very best."

"No, thank you," he announces. "Though they look appetizing to paté lovers, I prefer a different texture to my protein consumption." He wheels out a social script he'd learned long ago: "I'm saving my appetite for tomorrow's feast."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "You say that every year, but Christmas Day, you won't do justice to that meal, either." 

"For once, can we get through a meal without you commenting on my eating habits?" Ritual snarking at each other has been the soundtrack to all of Sherlock's memories of family meals. It just won't sink in with his mother that he dislikes—or is downright disgusted—by certain foodstuffs, and no amount of 'just have a taste' is going to change that. After over thirty years on this earth, he has also become rather good at predicting which offerings will fall into these categories.

Perhaps this is the reason why the only person with whom he has ever enjoyed eating something is John. He doesn't judge, and only nags occasionally because he's worried and thinking of Sherlock's best, not because of some archaic principle on which his brain has fixated. To John, the fact that Sherlock doesn't like something is justification enough not to serve it at home. _Nobody likes every possible food, do they? John certainly doesn't._

As he takes his place at the table, Sherlock decides he's had enough of dodging bullets. As the others tuck into their meals, he comments, "In Malawi, we had this most amazing cook—well, more a housekeeper who was also a cook. Louise listened to what we liked and used the ingredients available to produce simple but nutritious meals."

John is nodding. "I was surprised by the abundance of fish, but then, the nearby Lake Chilwa has plenty fishing going on. The local species are like a choice between sardines, salmon and bream. One thing we couldn't get used to, though, was their ground maize meal, Nshima. Never tasted anything quite like it."  

Sherlock smirks, having noticed how John is studiously using the term _we_. "A bit like wallpaper paste."

Mycroft swallows a bite of the green bean salad before commenting, "Yes, you would be able to make the comparison," he points out with a reserved chuckle. "When you were four, I distinctly remember you dipping into that pail of paste that the decorator was using to put up the wallpaper in the downstairs loo. Threw up on Dad's shoes, if my memory serves me."

Mummy shudders. "I can only imagine how unhygienic it must have been in Malawi. No proper abattoirs or food health officers. Food preparation must have been a cesspit of bacteria."

This borders on condescension, and Sherlock bristles. "We never had any issues in terms of our health from the food that we ate out there. Most of it was very fresh and vegetarian, out of necessity. Malawi is a poor country, but the people are too resourceful to starve." He looks around the table at the conspicuous consumption going on but decides against saying something that could be seen as criticism.

George chuckles. "You two didn't go to Africa to taste the local cuisine; tell us more about the work you were doing."

John starts off with a description of St Mary's hospital and the staff. "The whole point was that they needed diagnostic skills most of all, and general surgical skills. We did procedures that would never fall under our responsibilities at King's and managed to launch a rudimentary High-Dependence Unit. Specialisations are all well and good in a fully staffed hospital in a functioning health service, but a system like that doesn't exist in Malawi. So, we were challenged to think outside the box a lot. If someone needed an operation, either we plucked up the courage and went for it, or the patient was left without proper care. It was sobering that, without us, they'd often have no chance at all, and to be working so far outside our comfort zones."

"Pass the mustard, please, John." Mummy has helped herself to another slice of ham. "It all seems… well… rather crude. I mean, I don't really understand why someone would actually _enjoy_ working in less than optimal conditions, operating without proper equipment or drugs, on people you don't know and can't communicate with, given you don't speak their languages. You must have found the lack of trained staff—nurses, lab technicians, even cleaners—so frustrating." Her words are clearly directed at Sherlock.

"Yes, of course, Mummy. But that was the whole point. At King's, you get the perks of a western hospital, but nothing can be done without a wall of bureaucracy and paperwork or an army of specialists all arguing their case, making the poor patient nothing but a commodity to be dealt with and the bed freed for the next person. It was different in Malosa, and the difference was enlightening and refreshing. It was good to be appreciated for one's skills, instead of being worried about personal liability and pointless, indulgent patient complaints on trivial matters."

She seems determined to misunderstand his point. "I can understand how important charity work is in these poor countries. I was shocked to realise that you were one of only two neurosurgeons in the whole country. What I didn't understand is why you didn't use those particular skills to help people; surely, they have better-equipped hospitals in the capital. It seems a bit of a waste."

"Not at all. Not for me." Sherlock is getting frustrated at her inability to grasp what he is saying. He looks over at John for some help.

John gives a tiny nod; he sees the problem. "Well, before you think it was all a waste of time, let me tell you about the time that Sherlock delivered three babies in an afternoon… and one of those was on the floor of a mud hut, saving the life of a woman who would have died if Sherlock hadn't been able to devise a sort of a Bakri balloon on the go so that she could be transported to the hospital's OR before she bled out." 

"Is this really an appropriate topic for dinnertime?" Violet asks no one in particular. "Well, I am glad you are no longer finding obstetrics such a struggle, Sherlock. Do you remember what his Professor said?" she asks George, "He said that, though he knew all the theory like the back of his hand, he'd have to repeat the rotation to learn at least _some_ interpersonal skills," she announces.

Sherlock remembers the rotation, of course he does, and not fondly. _What the hell is one supposed to say to half-naked women screaming in agony?_ He is still not sure. He didn't get along with the midwives, finding many of their beliefs outdated and downright superstitious, and their nursing skills lacklustre compared to OR staff. He could not relate in any way to women suffering miscarriages, giving birth to their firstborns, or trying desperately to conceive. It was the rotation that most underlined his lacking abilities in interpreting the emotions of others and finding the appropriate responses. In the end, he had realised that keeping quiet and trying to focus on employing his practical skills were his best strategy to achieve a pass of that part of medical school. Being told he should work on expressing more empathy was less distressing than getting repeatedly chewed out for saying something that was deemed inappropriate. He never mastered the empty praise lavished on newborns and the mothers who had produced them; at Malosa he could at least hide behind the language barrier. Sherlock has nothing against older children, whose natural curiosity and honesty he appreciates, but he finds babies off-putting, noisy, and not very interesting. Thankfully, John was always with him in Malosa during obstetrics emergencies, and surgeons there didn't seem to be expected to get very touchy-feely in any situation. In Malosa, they all assumed that a Western doctor was worth their salt. In London, since patients cannot really objectively assess a physician's medical skills, all they look at is behaviour. Sherlock might be an outstanding neurosurgeon, but if a patient takes an active dislike to his persona, it always gets messy.

Defeated by Mummy's persistence in dragging up old criticisms, Sherlock returns his attention to the food on his plate. Whatever the successes of their African experiences were, his family is clearly uninterested in hearing about them.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
As the Christmas Eve supper ends, the family moves to the living room, where they finish the meal with a glass of port in front of a crackling log fire. It would be idyllic, if it wasn't just one part of the trials of the holiday period for Sherlock. This part of the evening means the exchange of gifts—always a prime opportunity for a social gaffe.

They've always done this on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day. ' _If it's good enough for the Royal Family to do it on Christmas Eve, it's good enough for us_ ,' Mummy announces every year. And, every year, for as long as he can remember, it has annoyed Sherlock. No one will give them a fine regardless of when they open or don't open their presents; why are people so hung up on such arbitrary rules? As a child, he kept demanding answers as to why such customs were observed. The replies were always disappointing: ' _that's just the way things are'_ , ' _you'll learn to appreciate these things when you're older—at least I hope_ _so_ ' or the classic: ' _this is the way it has always been done'_.

As a child, it had been hard for him to manage to sit still during the rituals of taking turns opening presents, and even harder to deduce the appropriate reactions expected from him towards each gift. Overstimulated by the demands that the day had brought, by evening he was usually in a state of agitated anxiety, wanting more than anything else just to be able to retreat for some peace and quiet. At the age of what must have been twelve, he had asked Mummy why he couldn't just open his pile of gifts whenever he pleased in his own room. She had seemed downright appalled: ' _Out of the question. We must respect those who have given us gifts by giving others the opportunity to appreciate them_.' Sherlock had rolled his eyes.

If anyone asked him right now what he really wants for Christmas, Sherlock would immediately answer, ' _to leave immediately_ '. Gritting his teeth for John's sake, he's put up with the usual palaver with less patience than usual. His face is aching a bit from forcing a smile; the bruising has now come out in its full glory, the black eye shockingly dark on his pale skin. He can't see it, of course, but it's not hard to spot how the gazes of others linger on his face just as they had when he'd been a boy and got beaten up yet again by some village delinquents, or his classmates at the village school, or some of Harrow's finest. The after-effects of his quiet timeout with John are fading, his nerves once again stretched taut. 

Mummy starts handing out the gifts. As there are five of them in attendance, everyone has four gifts to open, and Sherlock waits for the inevitable. _Three, two, one…._

" _Age hath its privilege,_ so your father gets to go first. Then, in descending order," she announces triumphantly.

John flashes her a reassuring smile. "I remember from our previous Christmases here, don't worry."

Sherlock stifles a sigh. He's always last and has to endure everyone commenting on their presents. Every polite, appropriately worded spontaneous exclamation on the merits of each gift kicks his anxiety up a notch; both gift giving and the receiving thereof has always been such a minefield. There are so many issues that he doesn't understand—reciprocity, for one. When he was young, he had a tendency to get people things he liked, because he assumed others would like those things, too. A good example was an occasion when he'd given Mycroft a pheasant he'd carefully stuffed under the tutelage of the local gamekeeper who was an amateur taxidermist. The occasion may have been the start of his interest in surgical techniques; it can be quite tricky removing the skin and preparing the skeletal structures. The work had taken him ages.

Mycroft had been horrified.

"But, you _like_ pheasants," the fifteen-year-old Sherlock had said.

"To _shoot_ and to _eat_ them, brother mine. This one looks like it is seeking revenge."

Mummy had shut it in the closet in the boot room, and on Boxing Day, Mycroft had donated it to the local pub—the Five Bells—where it sits to this day inside a glass case.

This year, Sherlock has taken a totally different tack. How it is going to turn out will depend on who first opens their gift. One of the things he least likes about Mummy's silly rules is that, over the years, his family has resorted to opening his gifts to them last. He suspects it is so that the experience wouldn't sour the rest of the proceedings.

The first round passes well enough. Father goes first, opening his gift from Mummy: a day's dry fly fishing on the River Ouse, on the Great Bentley beat. She always gets him something related to fishing. Sherlock thinks this is odd, given that he won't be able to enjoy it until the season starts in late April. 

Next, she opens the gift to her from Father: a first American edition of Thomas Malthus' _Principles of Political Economy Considered with a View to Their Practical Application._ Her eyes light up in excitement. "This is wonderful, George; what every economist worth their salt needs to read these days. So very topical, yet timeless."

Mycroft opens his mother's gift next: a signed copy of a new cookbook by Peter Knogel, the chef/owner of three Michelin-starred Cheval Blanc restaurant in Basel. Mycroft then goes off on a story about the ' _most sublime'_ foie gras starter he'd had at the last time he'd been able to get a reservation. "The place is booked out for nine or ten months ahead, alas."

"That's why I have booked us a table for three on your birthday. We'll join you to celebrate properly," George tells him.

Mycroft looks as though his head might split open from sheer delight. Sherlock bites his tongue, rather than say what had first come to his mind: mother has always had very astute awareness of Mycroft's idea of food porn. The book will keep him drooling until June.

When it's John's turn, the man decides to take the polite route, opening the gift from George before others. It's a book as well; John opens it and shows Sherlock: _Travels into Bohkara — Being the Account of a Journey from India to Cabool, Tartary and Persia_ by Alexander Burns.

George explains: "It's from the 1830s; Burns was quite an adventurer and ended up being murdered by a mob in Afghanistan. But, interesting nonetheless."

"Wow. Yeah, for sure I am going to enjoy it. Thank you. Very thoughtful."

There's that word, the one Sherlock hates so much— _thoughtful_. His thoughts about gifts have been routinely rubbished over the years, no matter how much he agonises over selecting them. This year's set has required significant logistical effort and certainly, plenty of _thought_.

"It's your turn, son." George gently reminds him.

Sherlock looks at the four wrapped packages in front of him. He has already deduced his father's present to be a book of some sort; the man appears to have settled on a theme this year. He's not the only one, but Sherlock's theme won't become clear until the second person unwraps the present from him. His mother's gift is harder to deduce, so he will leave it until last. Mycroft's gift will be boring, whatever it is. It's John's present that he's been eyeing since it was deposited in front of him, so he decides to open it first. He has not been able to deduce what lies beneath the colourful paper. John knows better than to let a store wrap his presents, because that tends to lead to a quick deduction about the contents.

Once Sherlock has untied the bow, carefully lifted the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper, the box makes his eyes open wide in delight. " _OH!_ It's a Suunto D6i Novo Black Zulu." 

Mummy rolls her eyes, "What on earth is that?"

Mycroft peers over at the image on the box, pronouncing: "A watch; how prescient, given the mugger must have taken his previous one that you gave him, Father, since I've not seen it on him and the bruising is indicative."

"It's not a watch," Sherlock says from behind gritted teeth, wanting to throw the box at his brother. _And they think I'm the tactless one?_ "It's a dive computer. One with the most advanced full continuous decompression algorithm on the market, gas-switching between up to three gases, an innovative apnoea timer for free diving, a tilt-compensated 3D digital compass, built-in dive planner, and it all links up to a comprehensive graphical and numeric dive log on my Mac. It's perfection that can be bought for seven hundred and fifty pounds online, and I've wanted one for ages." He has to stop to catch his breath, as all this has tumbled out at the rate of knots.

John is beaming at him. "I can tell you are pleased with it; that's the most you've said all day and in the shortest amount of time possible. Always a good sign that you are happy. Anything that helps keep you safe when you are diving is worth every penny."

Mummy is frowning at him, and Sherlock wonders why—has he done something wrong again?

Of _course_ , he has. "Do I have to remind you that it is customary to say _thank you_? And rather gauche of you to mention a price. Bad manners," she scoffs.

Sherlock doesn't care. Leaning over from where he is sitting, he puts an arm around John, pulling him into a hug. He whispers into his ear, "Thank you. It's _brilliant._ " A kiss on John's cheek underlines his words.

Perhaps his burst of enthusiasm has encouraged his father. George picks up a small rectangular box, exquisitely wrapped in a hand-made paper, printed with palm leaves and tied with a sisal ribbon. There is an identical package in the pile in front of each of the others; only the label is different _._

George smiles at his younger son. "Is it okay if I go first with your present?"

Sherlock nods. He can't quite pick apart whether he appreciates being asked or not—something about it makes him feel as though the others are walking on eggshells around him. But, if they really cared about his comfort, this whole ritual wouldn't be happening. "The rest of you need to follow with my present to each of you. They are connected." In fact, it would be best if you all just opened them simultaneously," he instructs.

"That sounds odd," his mother complains, but does pick up the wrapped parcel he has given her.

Sherlock waits for their reactions. His father is first to unwrap a silver plate photo frame containing a picture of Joseph Kilembe, a nurse at St Mary's Hospital in Malosa, grinning as he positions a new surgical light for the OR. Joseph's smile could light up the room on its own.

George looks over at Sherlock. "A photo of someone in that place you were in Malawi?"

Sherlock nods. "This is one of the hospital staff thanking _you_ for the gift of a new surgical lamp for their operating room. I bought it, donated it in your name and had it shipped out there in time for Christmas."

Mummy is frowning at her photo which she has now managed to unwrap. "What is this?" She sounds confused.

"The nurse has her hand on a box of neonatal resuscitation equipment—one of twenty sets I donated in your name—and next to her on the table, you can see five Doppler ultrasound devices to monitor foetal heart beat during delivery and prenatal appointments. I thought you would appreciate the maternal angle. The hospital really needs this."

Mycroft looks even more puzzled. His photo has a beaming nurse—Sherlock recognises her as Marceyllis Simengwa from the medical ward—holding up a key to a sturdy metal cabinet.

"A stationery cupboard?" Mycroft suggests.

Sherlock snorts. "No. A locked drug cabinet that can be cemented into the wall to stop the thefts of all those drugs I extorted from you and your company."

Mycroft sniffs. "We have a regular programme of donations to developing countries, so I'd hardly call it extortion; we already had another hospital in the country on our list. But, the security angle is not something I had appreciated. Interesting."  
  
John is nodding. "What an utterly brilliant gift, Sherlock. Thank you. Mine's a basic anaesthesia workstation—something I would have given my eye teeth for when we were out there. Nothing too fancy—just the sort of thing that can be repaired without a lot of palaver and spare parts needing to be flown in. No wonder the Hauglands are grinning like they just won the lottery. This is just so bloody thoughtful. Thank you." 

Trust John to be the first one, the  _only_ one who has actually said thank you. The others are looking at the photos in the frames with a mixture of surprise and confusion. 

Annoyed, Sherlock snaps out, "Well, I can see how underwhelmed you all are, apart from John, but believe me, we all get to enjoy luxuries at Christmas unheard of and within the NHS, whereas the people in Malosa District don't."

"I have heard––" Father says amicably, "––that charity gifts are becoming the norm in the business world. I'm not one to donate to large charities because a lot of the money goes to running their infrastructure, so it is very nice to see directly where all this will be used and that you got to pick what you knew was needed the most."

Mycroft is still scrutinising the photo. "I assume the locking mechanism is analogue; power outs might affect electronic locks."

"Old-fashioned lock and key," Sherlock assures him. "Fancy really isn't better when it comes to a hospital in a third-world country."

"Thank you, Sherlock dear," his mother says blandly. "But, we have many more presents to open."

Sherlock sinks back in his chair, letting the others resume the routine. He'd given a lot of consideration to their presents and still feels good about them, even if their reactions are less enthusiastic than he might have hoped for. At least no one yelled at him about his choice, so he supposes he should be grateful. Mycroft, out of all people, had seemed downright impressed.

The next round is predictable: Mycroft has bought Mummy a set of professional Swiss Victorinox kitchen knives in a stainless steel block, and Father gets a new pair of chest waders for fishing. Both are appreciated. Mycroft's gift to John is a three-bottle pack from Fortnum & Mason's—a good vintage claret, a fine white burgundy and a bottle of Dom Perignon, under the pretence that, "Even if Sherlock isn't much of a drinker, there's no reason why you should have to endure bad wine." 

Mummy seems pleased with her gift from John; after much deliberation, he'd opted for a fine Afghan pashmina, which she promptly drapes around her shoulders. And, George downright enthuses about the vintage wood and brass fishing reel made in Nottingham in 1900 John had found from the online catalogue of an antique dealer.

George admires the twin bone handles and the brass line guide. "They don't make them like they used to; this one's a beauty and looks to be in perfect working order still."

Sherlock's predictions about the remaining gifts to him come true. From his father, he receives a book about Thomas Willis and the publication of his work, _Cerebri anatome,_ which was first published in 1664. The plates are beautifully reproduced and do full justice in particular to the ones drawn by Sir Christopher Wren. It is a present that Sherlock is very positively surprised about and has no trouble appreciating.

Alas, the same cannot be said about Mycroft's present, which turns out to be two tickets to a concert by someone named Lindsey Stirling. Sherlock borrows John's phone, performs a quick online search and finds himself momentarily stunned, trying to process why his brother would send him to a _rock concert_. He never even lets John turn on the radio in the car because he cannot abide the rubbish that blares out. "You do know who she is?" he asks his brother, suspicion sharpening his tone.

"The salesperson said she is the latest thing, a hot instrumentalist who has sold more recordings than any other violinist. As part of her world tour she is performing to a sell-out crowd at the O2 arena. It was the very devil to get tickets."

Sherlock can't stop himself from laughing. "She plays something called _dub step_ compositions, not Brahms! Her own backing band consists of rock musicians playing electric guitars, with drums, and huge amplifiers… She does _choreographed dancing_ and _strobe light shows_ while pretending to play the violin, and …" He's waving his hands around in dismay. "Whatever gave you the idea that I would attend an event like that?"

"Oh, Lord. I've never pretended to be a connoisseur; you are the music enthusiast in this family. I just went by the concierge's recommendation," Mycroft dismisses with a shrug, glancing towards their mother for backup.

She never misses such a chance, so interjects: "Sherlock, need I remind you _still_ , after all these years, that it is the thought that counts. Your brother tried to find something that would appeal to your musical interests. You should thank him for making an effort."

He parrots the expected phrase: "Thank you." And fumes. He's expected to be grateful for a total misfire of a gift, and undoubtedly expected to attend the damned event, when almost every other Christmas he's been the one invariably chastised for giving something that is inappropriate. The utter unfairness of it all starts a burn in his resolve to stay calm and play the game. It's double standards, and so unfair.

The next round passes without him really noticing or caring what others got or said. He stares moodily into the fire, ignoring even John's hand which perches on his knee and gives it a squeeze before retreating.

"Last one, Sherlock. Your turn," Mummy prompts, and her anticipatory glee acts as a reminder that it's her own.

Sherlock picks up the envelope that has been tied up with a gold ribbon. He's going to be expected to gush about whatever it is, to follow the protocol of not being honest about one's reaction to an unwanted gift. Gritting his teeth, he tries to summon what patience remains to get through it.

The contents turn out to be a letter with a brochure.

' _Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes_ ,' it declares. ' _You have been gifted with a year's membership to London's premier private concierge service. The mission of our devoted team of lifestyle managers is to enhance your day-to-day life, providing bespoke services to take care of every aspect of our members' lives to give you back the luxury of time_.'

Confused, he opens the brochure and starts flipping through it. Beneath glamorous photos, the text describes their services ranging from personal shopping, household management, secretarial support, diary management and financial planning, holiday arrangements, to things like childcare and looking after pets.

It's bizarre. What does any of this have to do with him? "I don't understand."

He turns to John. "What is this? Did you know about this?"

John shakes his head. "No, I didn't."

Mummy rolls her eyes. "It's a _service_ , dear, people who will take care of all those things that you so struggle with; one call to them would have produced a car to pick you up, rather than run the risk of wandering off and getting mugged, for example. You're busy at the hospital all hours of the day and night and get so preoccupied with your interests. These people will sort out the mundane and the necessary, from picking up your dry cleaning to keeping your fridge properly stocked. They'll get the car serviced, make sure your schedules are in order, arrange things like plumbers and what have you. I thought it would be a useful gift for you _both_ ; it's not fair to have John do all this sort of thing."

Sherlock blinks, desperately searching his husband's expression for something, _anything_ , pleading for him to…he doesn't even know what.

John frowns briefly before tacking on a polite smile and shifting in his seat to face Mummy. "That's very kind, Violet. I don't do anything more than my fair share, but it could be quite handy to pass on a few of the chores to others. More time for Sherlock and me to enjoy ourselves."

She beams and starts refilling John's glass of port.

Despite his partner's words, Sherlock does not feel grateful at all. In fact, the insinuation that his mother has just re-enforced with her explanation has breached through whatever politeness he had barely managed to assemble. "…' _things I tend to struggle with_ '," he repeats, glaring at her. "How patronising of you. You assume that I don't do routine things like these well or at all, that I don't even bother to try, and just burden John with them. With _myself_. Oh, _bless him_ ," he exclaims in a falsetto mockingly designed to imitate his mother, "John is _such a saint_!"

The aforementioned godly being puts down the glass he had just been intending to sip from. The slight rosy tint on John's cheeks speaks of how many glasses he has already had. He doesn't say anything, but even Sherlock can decipher the pleading look he is sending Sherlock not to… what? Speak his mind? Upset everyone's evening? Ruin Christmas? Misbehave? Be himself? How could he ruin Christmas, when it's a performance that has never been for him, none of it? It's just a stage, and he's an actor nobody bothered to send the script to in advance. _What a pantomime!_

Sherlock rises to his feet. "On that note, I bid you all a good night. So sorry to have ruined your fun, yet again. Feel free to talk about me once I'm out of the room; I'm sure you'll do it anyway." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "We Three Kings".


	8. It Came Upon the Midnight Clear…

  
In the course of the next two hours, Sherlock manages to dilute his anger by lying on his back on his old bed, music blaring into his ears through the noise-cancelling headphones he had grabbed last-minute as they were heading out of the house. When flying, they help block out stressful ambient noise; now, they are isolating him from the sounds of his family downstairs.

Currently, he is listening to the last notes of the final Allegro part of Saint–Saens' third symphony. The composer had described the creation process of his masterpiece in C-minor with the words ' _I_ _gave everything to it I was able to give_ '. To that notion Sherlock can very much relate right now. Assumed to be based on an old Gregorian plainsong melody called Dies Irae— _the day of hatred_ —the symphony is an aggressive, grandiose thing adorned with ominous, bold, energetic strings and borderline chaotic polyphonic fugal sections with brass fanfares. Sherlock is almost tempted to lifts his arms to direct an invisible orchestra as it pounds its way through the major-scale variations of the main theme in the finale. When the last notes echo out, he plucks off his headphones and succumbs to the need to empty his bladder.

Once he's done, he leaves his trousers undone, planning on slipping under the covers soon, anyway. He might as well change to his pyjamas which he will likely end up removing at some point during the night since heat in the cottage tends to rise to the second floor from the fireplace downstairs.

He slips briefly back to his old room to get his toiletry kit. In front of the bathroom mirror, his skin gains a slightly jaundiced pallor from the dimmed, old bulb with a slightly broken cover. 

He studies his face. The bruising around his left cheekbone, brow and his nose are beginning to gain their brightest colours: bluish and purple. Swelling and less available oxygen in the injured tissues cause changes in haemoglobin trapped in the area, causing the discolouration. It will take a week before the colour will begin changing to green and yellow as the body starts to absorb the blood components. It will be a week during which he could just as well carry around a massive sign pointing out how useless he'd been. Maybe if his injuries had been worse, the others in this house would understand that he was overpowered, outnumbered, that he couldn't have done anything differently. _Didn't even need stitches._ He suspects the bruises will provide a never-ending discussion point regarding his shortcomings and, every time he looks in the mirror, it all comes back: what happened in Paddington, and how he's letting it affect himselfbecause he doesn't know how to keep his nerves from overwhelming his intellect.

He's had accidents before, including the fall which broke one of his cervical vertebrae, and he wasn't affected like that by it, was he? He shouldn't be, not when things happen to him. John is different. When things happen to John, it's–––

"Sherlock," a familiar voice calls out tentatively, startling Sherlock. He hadn't realised he'd left the toilet door open.

"Sorry," John says sheepishly. He's holding a toothbrush that is sporting a stripe of paste threatening to slide off the bristles.

Sherlock stares at it. _Mummy wouldn't appreciate that falling on the carpet. She'd think it was me._ He steps back from leaning his palms against the sink. He deduces that John had stayed downstairs just long enough to placate people. It’s what he does best these days—cleaning up after Sherlock’s messes. The thought makes him grind his teeth in frustration.

"You about done?" John asks, snaking a hand past him to turn on the tap and wet the brush. As expected, most of the paste get rinsed off, and it irritates Sherlock. John can be careless and sloppy, too, not just him. Why is everyone always watching _him_ so carefully?

They brush their teeth in thoughtful, reserved silence, and Sherlock's resigned anticipation of John's inevitable addressing of his earlier outburst seems to thicken the air between them.

"Let me see," John says after spitting and leaving his toothbrush on the tiny glass shelf under the mirror. Sherlock doesn't understand at first what it is he wants to observe, but then John reaches out and places his fingertips on his cheek, gently turning his head to various directions so that he can survey the damage. Sherlock refuses to grimace when John feels his nose. "Swelling's gone down."

"I never assumed there was a fracture or significant cartilage damage. I would have had it looked at," Sherlock argues. The statement is somewhat untrue: _John_ would have demanded that he gets it looked at because in the state he'd been that day and the next morning, getting organised enough to sort himself out would have been a pipe dream.

"Any trouble biting your teeth together? Any soreness here?" John asks next, running his fingers along Sherlock's jaw. There is light bruising along the mandible, but it's just soft tissue damage.

"I know when to suspect a mandibular fracture," Sherlock defends himself.

"And I know you'd rather swallow razor blades than go to the dentist."

"Dentists don't treat significant mandibular fractures. It requires a maxillofacial surgeon, possibly a collaboration with––"

"––an ORL," John nods. "Don't get cross; I just want to make sure we haven't missed anything."

There's the _we_ again that Sherlock likes.

"You do know Violet didn't mean anything bad by that gift?" John asks, descending from tiptoe. It seems that he's satisfied with the results of his status exam.

Sherlock pulls the chain to turn off the light, and they make their way to the bedroom. "Insults are not always governed by deliberate motivation, no."

"We _are_ busy, and if I don't have to file my own taxes or always sort out our Ocado orders, I'm all for it. Gift horses and mouths and all," John suggests carefully as they arrange the bedding to their liking.

Sherlock notices John intends to wear socks to bed. Considering the lacklustre standards of Mummy's vacuuming, it feels like a somewhat unsanitary idea. "Don't give her the satisfaction of accepting it," Sherlock says bitterly.

"I see tonight's not the time to talk about this. Should have guessed." John leans over the side of the bed to dig out a book from his suitcase. "Wouldn't it be better if you just let it be? Ignore her?"

"You wouldn't find her easy to ignore if she was constantly on your case," Sherlock says, turning away from John and parking his tablet on the mattress. "Not even Mycroft can ignore her."

John yawns. "I didn't get on with my Mum all the time, either, because Harry or I could work out why she didn't send Dad packing."

Sherlock opens a new tab on his tablet browser but having no idea what he wants to read or watch. Lately, his eyes have been getting tired and slightly irritated rather quickly, and he keeps having to make the text larger, which then consequently requires more shifting and scrolling. "Is this where you tell me how lucky I am not to have had _your_ childhood?"

John pats his duvet-covered hip. "No. This is where I tell you tomorrow's another day."

 _Of constant harassment and humiliation_. The bruising on his face will be like honey to a bee when it comes to Mummy's compulsion to undermine his autonomy at every turn.  
  
Maybe the concierge service could be assigned to screen calls and provide generic refusals to attend family functions. The only use Sherlock would consider it having is trying to achieve some peace and quiet.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

"It's way past midnight," John says and puts his book away—some mindless spy novel with a firearm on the cover.

"Can't sleep," Sherlock replies and shifts to the next open tab on the browser of his tablet, blinking hard to focus on the tiny text. It's a small blessing he hadn't carried the iPad with him on the day he lost his wallet and phone. When email digests from scientific journals come in, he tends to click on the links to the most interesting articles and leave them open as tabs, waiting for a moment when he has the time to read. Having to buy a new one would have messed up his system. Tonight, " _Tracing the Origin of Glioblastoma: Subventricular Zone Neural System Cells_ " has been a welcome distraction to the baton of anger twirling within his cranium.

"You're keeping your pineal gland awake with the light from that thing," John points out and switches off the lamp on the bedside cabinet. He doesn't usually sleep on that side, but he'd needed the light for his book.

"Is that so?" Sherlock raises a doubtful brow but does turn off the device and put it on the floor beside the bed. He then shifts back to lying on his back, fingers crossed on top of the comforter. There are so many layers of bedclothes that he's tempted to shed some more clothes; at home, he often sleeps naked.

They lie quietly in the dark for some time, neither tossing nor turning as they do at home to find a comfortable position. Sherlock thinks he can sense strange anticipation in the air, as though John is holding his proverbial breath before asking something. Sherlock hopes it's not an invitation for sex; as welcome a distraction as it could be, his parents' bedroom is just across the hall. The thought of them overhearing something is the most effective cock-block he knows. Sex is the only topic his mother never personally tried to educate him about, probably assuming it was information he wouldn't ever need. The only thing even distantly approaching the topic were copious general lectures on not letting people take advantage of him.

"I can practically hear the cogs still turning in your head," John says, an unseen smile tinting his tone.

He's the only person besides his family whose emotions Sherlock knows how to read to any extent. In the dark, he doesn't have to decipher words _and_ tone _and_ expression or subject himself to John's visual scrutiny, so talking about things becomes easier at night. This time, however, he has no desire to talk.

Sherlock sits up just long enough to discard his pyjama top, then turns and flops onto his stomach; he often sleeps like that, a pillow crushed between his palm and his cheek. Because of his sore nose and black eyes, he’s resting his forehead on his right elbow to avoid pressing it into the pillow. The mattress is worn enough that he feels like he's on a slope, and already getting hot, so he pushes the duvet and the top sheet down to his waist. Heat rises in an old house like this even when the temperature plummets, making it chilly and draughty downstairs. The old radiator system gives them the choice of either sub-tropical or arctic.

John strokes his shoulder, then trails a hand down his back to rest in the dip of his lumbar spine. He must have turned onto his side, facing Sherlock. Next, John shifts his arm to be draped across Sherlock's shoulders, giving him a brief hug.

Sherlock finds himself hoping that John won't ask what he often does, namely: _'are you alright_ '. Here, in the safety of the dark and the warmth of his presence, Sherlock might be tempted to actually answer honestly, which would be counter-intuitive to John wanting the two of them to sleep. If anything, Sherlock is trying _not_ to think of all the things that are currently getting on his nerves. So, instead he focuses on the fact that his face is hurting, despite the paracetamol he’d taken, and the abrasion on his wrist is smarting after rubbing against the cuff of his pyjama top.

He lifts his head from the pillow, curious about what John is planning when the man sits up and pushes off his own half of the covers. The answer comes when John straddles his thighs on top of the comforter and rests his palms on Sherlock's shoulders.

"You're as tense as can be, muscles tight as a brick, love," he whispers, leaning close to push aside Sherlock's nape curls to place a kiss there. John then begins massaging his shoulder muscles, pinching along the knotted chords of the edges of his trapezius.

Massages had been a nearly daily ritual towards the end of Sherlock's halo sentence—one of the only things he remembers fondly from that period. The contraption had been murder on his back muscles, and he could always catch the tail end of sleep more easily after this. He knows it has to do with more than just the tension in his muscle strands being released, and John must be aware of this also; why else would he seem to _enjoy_ bothering to do this? Sometimes, it even works as foreplay, and John tends to favour that approach at times when Sherlock is stressed or distracted. Objectively speaking, he is both of those things right now, but attempting to connect words to conceptual emotions to how he feels, is a complex process he doesn't often attempt, especially not when said feelings are straining his patience. Nowadays, a lot of doctors and scientists agree that the mind and the body are so connected that psychiatry and neurology should be one speciality. They had once been precisely that, before early biomedical dualism wedged between. Sherlock does believe that emotions can be explained through human biochemistry, but intuitively, it feels curious and odd to him how things that happen to his body can either calm or irritate his mind. _Cocaine, sex, exercise, John's proximity_.

John finds a particularly tight, tense spot where Sherlock major rhomboid connects his spinal column to his scapula underneath the trapezius. When he digs his thumb in deep, the darkness inside Sherlock's closed eyelids explodes in orange and red, and the world tilts on his axis, bringing on a sudden, sharp bout of nausea. He gasps, pinching his eyes closed even tighter. It takes him a moment to notice John's hands have stopped because the sensation of them on his skin had been temporarily drowned in the neural storm of the data flows into his sensory centres flooding over and spilling onto the wrong pathways.

He knows the scientific explanation. It has been theorised that synaesthesia is the result of insufficient neural pruning—meaning the shutting down of unnecessary neural connections in the brain in utero. There's also the theory that individuals experiencing synaesthesia may have more white and grey matter in their brains than average. Over sixty types of the phenomenon have been observed in humans. Sherlock doesn't experience synaesthesia all the time but touch—particularly when unwanted—is a most potent trigger. It's not always unpleasant; during sex, it adds an extra layer of stimulating excitement, but sometimes it takes a while for it to stop after he climaxes.

John is now sliding his palms down Sherlock's back; he knows not to be too gentle. That would only leave behind an irritating residual sensation, like the reverberations of a violin string after the bow has already been lifted off. _Echoes of the neurons firing._

Sherlock draws in a shaky breath as the darkness in his visual field slowly bleeds ink into blackness again, then arches his back a little to signal John to continue. John is more careful, now, no longer trying to untangle the tension but just stroking and pressing down with the heel of his palm. When he does this slowly down the side of his spinous processes, Sherlock exhales and lets himself sink down into the mattress. He can now focus entirely on what John is doing instead of his mind wondering off down memory lane.

At some point, he stops thinking, and having fallen asleep, he doesn't even notice when John returns to his own side of the bed and slips back under the covers.

 

 

 


	9. "You can imagine the Christmas dinners…"

  
Christmas morning marks a marginally better mood for Sherlock. Due to a middle dip in the old mattress, they had both migrated towards the centre of it in the night. This means that Sherlock gets to pry his eyes open against John's side, head resting on his husband's arm that's tucked between Sherlock's pillow and the mattress.

He shifts so that he can drape his own arm across John's torso. Thanks to the warmth, John has discarded his T-shirt at some point during the night, and Sherlock can't resist the temptation to stroke his thumb tip along the coarse hairs on his chest between his nipples. John has relatively little body hair above his navel. He's not a vain man but does keep his face and his legs hair-free and Sherlock prefers it that way. _I like my anaesthetists clean-shaven_ , he thinks with a secret grin, unable to resist pressing his groin tightly against John's hip.

John's hum of acknowledgement is still sleepy, but he isn't protesting.

"They've all gone to church by now," Sherlock whispers, stroking his thumb across a nipple. The clock on the wall says 09:12. The service is at ten, but Mummy is on the church flowers committee and wants to get there early to hobnob with the parishioners, including the parish council who attend the Christmas Morning Communion service. The first time they had come to Sussex for Christmas, John had been asked to join them, but he'd excused himself by saying he wanted to keep Sherlock company. He had explained to Sherlock that he had little taste for the church since he'd been forced to attend as a child and watch his, quote, _'fuckwit of a dad pretend he was a good Christian_ '.

So, while the rest of the Holmes clan goes down the road to Chailey, the two doctors have embraced a Christmas tradition of sleeping in and maybe a bit of lovemaking before dragging themselves downstairs for tea, toast, and mince pies stolen from Mummy's stash. Sherlock isn't the strongest proponent of holiday traditions, but this one he likes.

He moves his hand down, breaches John's pants and shoves his hand through the right leg of the fabric, sliding his fingers into the warmth between John's inner thighs. From there, he can be a tease and rub his thumb against John's balls through the thin fabric.

John's fingers grip gently around his bicep, squeezing him closer. "Good morning," he says in a suggestive tone and opens his eyes to look at Sherlock with a languid smile.

Sherlock withdraws his hand so that he's back inside the pants, enabling him to gather the weight of John's balls on his palms. At first, he simply holds on, relishing the notion of the control he has right now. Just the right amount of squeeze, and John tenses but doesn't push his hand away. He's already fully hard, Sherlock realises, and loses interest in anything but the cock jutting up, constricted between the pants and John's stomach. A quick flick of Sherlock's thumb across the tip doesn't disappoint; the bit of moisture there will do for a moment in providing sufficient lubrication.

John extricates his arm from under Sherlock and crosses his fingers underneath his pillow to savour the moment. "Unless you want me to––"

"We have time," Sherlock replies. Focusing on John allows him to regulate his own arousal, to slow things down so that this won't be too quick an encounter. He wants to relish this, to store it in his memory for the next few days when they'll be constantly surrounded by others and there will be little chance for intimacy.

He's started off with strokes which he knows are a bit loose and slow for John's taste, but this isn't about efficiency. Not gripping hard, he can appreciate the varying texture beneath his fingers: the slightly compressible columns down the shaft called the corpora cavernosa, the silky-skinned glans, the exquisitely sensitive ridge of the fraenulum. It had helped, during the early days of their relationship, that neither of them is circumcised; it meant that most of the things that worked on Sherlock he could try on John with at least some certainty of success. John is much less sensitive than he is, of course, so he had to learn how to use enough pressure and grip in his ministrations.

He leans over John for a kiss, and John curves a palm around his neck, fingertips trailing up his scalp. Sherlock shudders; John knows his weaknesses. To reward his husband, he grips the base of his shaft harder, just the way John likes it, and starts a longer stroke with a slight twist at the end. After the kiss, he'd stayed lying on his side, palm resting on the prickly stubble on John's cheek. John grabs hold of his wrist and brings his palm to his lips, trailing kisses from the middle to the tip of his forefinger, which he then sucks into his mouth.

This floods Sherlock with a sense of delicious anticipation, his fledgling erection swiftly hardening up.

"Off," John says, voice rough with sleep and arousal, tugging at Sherlock's flannel pyjama bottoms.

He removes his hand from John's cock momentarily to fumble with the drawstring; when he's this hard, his hands always tend to shake a little.

John is lifting his hips so that he can push off his pants. The bed creaks when he drops his bottom back onto the mattress—but then he freezes.

Sherlock's head is so thoroughly filled with a catalogue of potential next steps towards an orgasm that the sound that now has John on alert doesn't register until it has made its way nearly to their door: footsteps.

John quickly reaches down to drag the duvet up to cover both of them. Sherlock knows they must look debauched: John's chest has bloomed pink; his own hair is a mess and his pyjama top nearly off.

"Fuck," John mutters from behind clenched teeth.

"Alas, no," Sherlock hisses in reply just as there's a knock on the door. He feels like a teenager, having snuck a paramour into his room.

Then again, he never had anyone he could have done that with. Not before John.

"Morning," Mycroft greets from behind the door. "Shall I leave the butter and the jams on the table?"

"Good idea; perhaps you could shut yourself in the fridge, instead" Sherlock mutters and John chuckles.

"No, it's fine, we'll be right down, thanks Mycroft," John yells.

"I had some work calls to make; Mummy and Father have gone to St Peter's."

"How surprising," Sherlock quips. He stretches his hands above his head, grunting in frustration.

The footsteps retreat.

"' _I had some work calls to make'_ ," Sherlock mocks his brother. "On Christmas morning?!" He rolls his eyes, then raises his head to lift the duvet and glare at his cock, still hard and now tragically neglected.

John shrugs, flinging off the duvet and dropping his feet on the carpet. "The man runs a multi-billion-dollar company, with manufacturing facilities in the Far East. I doubt he ever really gets the sort of holiday time where he can turn off his mobile."

Sherlock huffs, leaves the bed and goes to rummage around in his suitcase. Apparently, he's forgot to pack a dressing gown, so a ratty old bathrobe still hanging in the closet between his Cambridge robes and his last Harrow uniform will have to do. _Why hasn't Mummy thrown those out or put them in the attic?_ He's annoyed and frustrated and he'll have to wait until he's a little less hard to be able to go pee before starting on his other morning routines.

 _Merry bloody Christmas_.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

           

It’s the smell that gets him, every time. Sherlock had once moaned that Mummy must have put the sprouts on to cook on the first Sunday of Advent for serving them up on Christmas day. That Christmas, when he was fourteen, she’d retaliated by serving him a double portion. The sprout has long been an object of his fear and loathing at the dinner table; the wretched thing has been forced down his throat ever since he could remember because, as Mummy always repeats the mantra, _'it’s good for you_ '.

When he’d been studying for his A level in chemistry, Sherlock had been allowed by his teacher to fractionate the components of the smell. When the _Brassica oleracea var. gemmifera_ is cooked, it releases mustard oils and cysteine derivatives amongst its many volatile components. The odiferous nightmare ends up reeking of rotten eggs, oozing its monstrous aroma across the dining table from its bowl of horror. In the chemistry lab, he’d isolated revolting aromatics, distilling the hydrogen sulphide out as a pure gas _._ H₂S is a colorless chalcogen hydride gas which is very poisonous in large amounts, corrosive, and flammable. He'd written up the paper, noting that cooking the vegetable has the remarkable capacity to increase the concentration of H₂S, actually doubling it between the fifth and seventh minute of boiling. The thirty minutes that his mother insists upon is therefore maximises the value of its hidden chemical weapon. Unbeknownst to the chemistry teacher, Sherlock had bottled the extracted gas and then used it to douse the football jersey of one of his chief harassers, a particularly vile youth by the name of Charles Consett.

Breakfast had been alright since it was just him and John and Mycroft in the house and the cupboards are heaving with treats. But now that his parents have returned from church, he has made a hasty escape from the odours in the kitchen to his old bedroom where he has been hiding out for most of the late morning. Soon, he'll have to deal with the impending doom that is the Christmas lunch. He rehearses in his head how the ordeal will unfold once they are called to the meal.

As they enter, Father will be at the sideboard, carving the turkey—yet another culinary torture. Dried out, tasteless and stringy, this form of poultry has repelled Sherlock ever since he was a child. It’s not that his mother is a bad cook; she isn't, but with meat, she goes for tradition over taste. And, when he gets to have input on what will be served, she can produce food that he actually enjoys. The trouble with Christmas is that he’s never been given a choice. The slab of pale, stringy meat will be plopped onto the plate, alongside one bacon roll and the single chipolata sausage before being handed to Mummy who will load on it first a spoonful of disgusting forced meat stuffing, then three burned roast potatoes and finally the _piece de resistance_ : a spoonful of sprouts. This plate of terror will then be passed to Mycroft who will ceremonially place it down in front of Sherlock before handing him the jug of congealed gravy topped with a skin that has formed on it while the turkey had 'rested'. _Not in peace, surely._ No matter how often he has tried to convince his family members that he'd rather starve than consume what is on that plate, he knows what their reaction will be. Even with John in attendance, he's not able to avoid the torture.

' _Don’t even start_ ,' Mummy will warn him if he expresses his discomfort. ' _You know the rules, because they've always been the same. You will eat what is on your plate for once in your life, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. We can't always be having your comfort foods, and it's_ _Christmas_. _And don’t look for Natch to help you out. I've put him in the kitchen, so you won’t be tempted to feed him half your plate_.'

It's all utterly ridiculous, of course. Surely other people's parents don't enforce the same rules on them as they did when their children were small? Mummy thinks she's entitled, because he can't possibly be trusted to decide what he puts in his mouth. _'Lord knows what he'd try to live on if there was nobody there to watch over him. Chocolate biscuits and cigarettes, probably_ ,' she had conspiratorially tutted to John the first time Sherlock had brought him to visit. The last time he quit smoking, John got all the praise.

After the debacle of present-giving last night, Sherlock is in no mood to put up with more condescension, so he considers his options. He could march down to the kitchen now and tell his mother that he will eat only the roast potatoes, several chipolata sausages and at least three bacon rolls. That’s it, nothing more. No turkey, no stuffing, no gravy, and certainly no sprouts. His ultimatum would be that if he doesn't get his way he will simply not show up at the table, and they can proceed without him. He runs the scenario in his head, imagining Mummy’s reaction. First, she would bluster, then cajole before trying to bribe him and‚ when none of that worked, she would get his father in on the act to take him aside and patiently explain that he mustn't ruin everyone's day by being difficult. John would stay silent to be polite, and Mycroft would be conveniently consumed by something on his laptop or in a newspaper, keeping his head well down. _So much for brotherly backup._ What Mycroft has always been good at is making it look like he never takes sides and that he's always above petty arguments. _The pharmaceutical industry must find good use for a man coated with Teflon._

The worst thing Mummy does is playing the John card. This had worked three Christmases ago, when she’d bullied Sherlock into playing along with: ' _You don’t want to spoil his first time with us, do you? It isn’t fair. The poor man hasn’t had a family Christmas dinner in years, and you know how hard he is trying to get on with everyone. Don’t be so mean. You shouldn’t take this occasion away from him. Unlike him, you still_ have  _family_.' Apparently, in the world of Violet Holmes, alcoholic sisters don't count. Or, maybe John hadn't mentioned her yet. Sherlock is bad at keeping track of such things—what should be kept secret and what not—which is why he has on several occasions revealed something about John to other people which John has felt he shouldn't have. Not even if those things ought to be flattering in a masculine sense.

Mummy is right in one thing: John has always seemed happy to be invited to Sussex. Sherlock doesn't care much for Christmas, but John seems to enjoy many of its traditions. Experiencing them together has even expelled some of the bitterness Sherlock feels towards the whole holiday, which is why he had allowed the guilt Mummy had bestowed upon him to make him suffer in silence at the table. His relationship with John was still new enough that he’d worried about making the man loathe his family or worse: him, for somehow ruining Christmas by shunning burnt potatoes.

It had admittedly felt good how welcoming his parents had been towards John. They'd downright gushed over him when they'd arrived late on Christmas Eve that first year, practically ignoring Sherlock in the process. _Just blissful._ Strangely enough, it had felt as though he'd finally done something they approved of, even if his mother has sometimes dropped hints that she believes it had been very much a lucky accident that the two of them are together. That may be true regarding how they first got together, but after working hard to preserve their relationship, it feels insulting that Mummy refuses to give any credit to him for keeping John happy. She thinks John is a saint for putting up with her son and reminds John of this several times during every Christmas visit. Sherlock does not regret throwing it in her face yesterday.

In contrast, Last Christmas had been pure heaven. Mummy and Father had been invited to spend it in the USA, with one of her former colleagues at Harvard. Their Boston holiday had given Sherlock and John the perfect excuse to spend Christmas Day working and then to skive off over the New Year to the Red Sea coast for a bit of diving and sunshine. Not a hint of Christmas, no twee decorations, no sickly carols being warbled—except at the Christmas buffet dinner at the hotel which they steered clear of—and no horrible yuletide cuisine to endure. There was nothing but the pleasure of John’s company and the gorgeous reef wall diving at the Ras Mohammed underwater national park to enjoy. Sherlock had been cleared to return to the sport by a diving physician just in time for the trip; a detailed note from Laura Arthur stating that his cervical vertebra fracture was fully healed had expedited the process.

For a moment, Sherlock relishes a few of the memories from Egypt in his Mind Palace: a lazy morning with John at their resort suite, then floating in the crystal-clear water, watching a school of hammerheads swim past down below, heading off to the open sea. John, waiting for him at the pier when they returned from a night dive so that he could take Sherlock to dinner. Proper ballroom dancing at the hotel's nightclub; it doesn't matter that John is terrible at it, even after Sherlock has been trying to teach him the basics. They'd researched the local resorts beforehand to make sure there would likely be other male couples there. After fumbling around on the dance floor, they'd gone back to their suite and John had executed a rather spectacular blowjob on the balcony.

 _Bliss_.

Sherlock is recalling the sensation of the warm Red Sea water on his skin when there is an angry clatter of metal pans from the kitchen, shattering his concentration. Then, the sound of ponderous footsteps in the hall heralds a visit from his brother. He keeps his eyes closed as the door is pushed open.

"Are you going to sulk in here all morning?"

Without opening his eyes, he snaps out, "I’m not sulking."

"A tactical retreat, then?"

"Avoiding being in the line of fire more like it."

"You are letting the side down, leaving John terribly exposed, you know."

"Exposed? Exposed to what? He's fine, because they _adore_ him."

"That’s as may be, but I am not sure that the feeling is constantly mutual between all parties: both John and Father have left the field of battle. Your husband is now being bored to death by Father who is showing him his carpenter’s bench in the workshop. If they don’t freeze to death first, ennui may."

"That leaves you to deal with Mummy. Go on, get back in there."

"This is me calling for reinforcements."

"You can shoot me for desertion, but I am not budging off this bed until I absolutely have to."

"Don't tempt me. An assassination would at least give her something else to talk about."

Sherlock opens his eyes to scrutinise his brother. "What’s she on about now?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You, of course; how ungrateful and rude you were last night and how she deserves better."

Sherlock closes his eyes. "And I suppose you were happy to stoke the fires of her discontent, as always." Mycroft doesn't need to do that to be seen as the perfect one—the golden boy—but his brother has never been all that modest to start with.

"Not at all, brother mine. It would do you good not to split people so into villains and allies; it's childish. I understand your frustration but am far too diplomatic to voice any support for a lost cause."

There is something in that statement that infuriates Sherlock into action. He heaves himself off the bed and crosses the narrow space between the double bed and the doorway. "No, you do _not_ understand how I feel about this, because there's no way you could. That’s the trouble with you all. I'm the one who gets blamed for having no empathy, because of something read in a damn book ages ago. But, not one of you has any idea of what it is like to be me. What’s worse, none of you even try—except John." He attempts to stare down his brother so that he'd retreat back downstairs.

"Untwist your knickers, Sherlock. Life isn't fair, as you well know. We are all burdened with our individual challenges and most importantly: our family responsibilities. This weighs as heavily on me as it does on you. If we are going to be cowards and avoid their company during the rest of the year, then Mummy must have her Christmas. If you cannot understand why it simply is the proper thing to do, think of it as a tax."

"What have I earned that deserves to be taxed?"

"Think of it as payback. They gave you life, raised you, took care of you. There will come a time when they are old and infirm, and we shall then have to do the same for them. This is the very meaning of _family_ , Sherlock."

"There are nurses for hire and old people's homes."

"I meant figuratively, which of course has eluded you. Apologies."

Sherlock glares daggers at his brother, his anger having temporarily deprived him of the suitable words to take him down. Mycroft may be able to find the patience to deal with this ordeal, but he doesn’t. Apart from John, everyone and everything in this house reminds him of his childhood. Christmas is a constant stream of reminders of what his flesh and blood think of him: deficient, unable to look after himself, always being scrutinised to see if his behaviour matches their expectations of what _normal_ people are supposed to act like. Even when Mycroft isn’t here, Sherlock cannot escape the fact that his parents will always judge his behaviour in terms of how it compares with his older brother. He’s had that thrown at him for his whole life. Is it any wonder he resents his only sibling? If he’d been their firstborn, at least Mummy and Father would have judged him on his own merits before they knew any better.   

Glancing around his old bedroom, the only concession to his changed circumstances as an adult has been squeezing in a double bed into the space where his single had once been. The same cork board over the desk is still there, the marks on the side of the door frame measuring his height as he grew still have the dates and numbers written in black marker. His old chest of drawers is still in situ, but a rickety wardrobe had to be removed to make room for the bed. It has been re-purposed in one of the outbuildings as an apple storage cupboard. The only thing added after he had left for university besides the bed are a series of framed photographs. None of them are of him as an adult; instead, they feature moments which have no meaning for him, but he can see the underlying theme. There's him at the age of approximately thirteen, holding a cricket bat in a Harrow PE uniform with an apprehensive look on his face. Him, sitting in front of a cake with a paper crown on his head Mummy had forced him to wear for his tenth birthday—the last birthday party they ever arranged for him at home because he mostly just hid in his room from all the noise and commotion. Him, at the age of about eight, wearing his first suit. The wool blend had been scratchy and the shirt ill-fitting, and he'd torn the whole ensemble off the minute the photographer said the session was done.

The images are a study in normality, as fake as the Christmas tree in the sitting room. They document moments when Sherlock had done as he was told so that Mummy could fulfil her dream of having two darling children who never caused a fuss. _Two perfect little Mycrofts_.

In fact, not even the rest of the house has changed at all; the furniture is exactly as it was for as long as Sherlock can remember. It's like stepping into a diorama where he is just a piece of the furniture, too—unmoveable, unchanged. Despite being an internationally respected neurosurgeon living in London with his husband, one who can manage well enough to deal with John's friends and who even played in a quartet at the neurosurgical unit's Christmas party, in his parents' eyes he is still just a special needs child. One who must _so_ look forward to coming home to Mummy for Christmas. 

This realisation hits him in the pit of his stomach, making the acids churn even more. He pushes past Mycroft.

"I need some fresh air," he announces and heads downstairs.


	10. Where Charity Stands Watching

 

"What are you doing?"

John’s gentle question cuts across his concentration. For the past forty minutes Sherlock has been a well-oiled machine, testing his hand-eye coordination and spatial awareness in the most aerobic exercise he can conjure up in the wilds of Sussex. The pile of split beech logs, expertly cut time and time again until they are perfect for kindling, has grown beside the huge piece of a Yew tree trunk that has served for years as the anvil for such work. As he'd warmed to the task, Sherlock had shed first the jacket and then his old navy pullover that he’d found in the back of the drawer. It’s a bit short in the sleeve, probably bought when he was still at school. It suits the task, since it keeps his wrists unencumbered and able to move without restraint.

Without breaking rhythm, he upends another beech log on the anvil, steps back and lifts the axe. "I’m getting rid of some excess energy. Stand clear, John."

He lifts the axe and with one clean swing cleaves straight through the log. Two steps forward and one half-log is back on its end on the anvil. Two steps back, another full swing, and this falls into quarters. Thankfully, John is behind him, out of his eye line—he needs to concentrate. The whole exercise has cleared his anger and his mind completely, allowing him to focus on the now instead of dwelling on the things that have upset him.

John steps forward to sweep up the split wood onto the growing pile, before putting the other half log onto the anvil in exactly the right position; Sherlock uses the interlude to take a deep breath. Exhaling, he watches it vaporise in the cold air. It’s below freezing, but he doesn’t feel it. The weather is still sunny, but clouds gathering in the horizon herald rain if not sleet.

As soon as John steps behind him, Sherlock lets fly again, and the axe bites into the wood with surgical precision. There is something pleasurable about the whole process, a fact Sherlock had discovered when he was fourteen. The first time he'd done it, Mummy had come screaming out of the kitchen door, shouting at him to stop, utterly convinced that he would hurt himself. Back then, schooled into obedience, he had stopped only to continue after she’d left to go shopping in Haywards Heath. The pile of neatly chopped kindling in the wood store had gone unnoticed until after he was back at school; she’d assumed that George had done it. On his next weekend home from school, his father had watched him demolish another pile of logs and had told Mummy to leave him to it thereafter.

As he steps forward to place another log, John comes between him and the pile. "Time to come in; it’s two o’clock and the turkey is ready, according to your mother."

"Done to death, you mean."

John smirks. "Well, I hope it’s not still alive, love. I don’t fancy a case of salmonellosis, do you?"

"That’s her excuse for ruining what might once have been edible."

"You’ve been hiding out here all morning; I’ve been missing you. Anyway, it’s time to get this over with."

Pleased that John is aware of how taxing he finds meals in this house, Sherlock places the axe back in the wood store and they walk back in the house. Natch greets them eagerly in the boot room, all awag to see Sherlock again. He gives the back of the black dog's ears a scratch and then uses the wooden jack to remove his wellingtons.

Back in the kitchen, his mother is serving up the roast potatoes, which he notes are frazzled and looking somewhat incinerated.

She glances up. "There you are, at last. You missed the champagne and smoked salmon canapes. Thank you, John, for dragging him in. Make yourself useful and take this into the dining room; I want to have a word with him."

As John takes the bowl from her, Mummy is looking up and down Sherlock's figure with a glare that is decidedly icy; she's obviously not forgiven him yet. "Is it that much to ask that you spend time with us doing what every other family seems to take for granted? Just for once, could you not cause a fuss? Christmas only comes once a year, so it’s not that much of a burden."

Sherlock says nothing, because he knows that when she is this annoyed with him, anything he does say will be misconstrued as an argument. 

"Good lord, you _would_ choose the rattiest, oldest pullover in the drawer, wouldn’t you, without a thought to spare on what day it is?" Violet's tweed skirt has a herringbone pattern in a soft green tone that is matched by the cashmere twin set she is wearing. She’s even put on the inevitable pearl necklace and matching earrings. "I despair of your holiday dress sense; do you not have to dress smartly for work?" She makes a face. “And no time for a shower after all that untimely chopping; why can't you ever keep track of the time? Just make sure you wash your hands."

She turns away and lifts the lid on the pan of sprouts boiling on the stove. A cloud of steam rises to join the general fug in the kitchen; condensation is running down the windows. Sherlock finds it hard to understand why she would complain about human perspiration honestly earned through hard work, while at the same time ignoring the stench of boiling evil.

Retreating from the chemical warfare, Sherlock heads for the downstairs cloakroom to have a pee and wash his hands. The house feels stuffy and over-heated after his exertions, so he strips off the pullover and leaves it on the sofa. Perhaps she will find the Turnbull & Asser basil green dress shirt he'd left underneath more acceptable even if it is now slightly creased.

John is wearing his old, brown corduroy jacket with a red-and-green plaid shirt and jeans. The ensemble ages him at least ten years, but Sherlock knows he prefers comfort over style when they're not at work. For Sherlock, style and comfort are synonymous: well-tailored clothes won't have extra fabric that shifts and tickles, or badly done seams which irritate him to the point of insanity since he can't really acclimatise to such sensations.

When he emerges from the loo, he nearly collides with Mycroft coming down the hall bearing a covered dish. "Gangway, brother. I come bearing your least favourite vegetables."

"What can I bribe you with to drop the whole lot on the floor here? If you make enough of a mess, we might be spared this torture."

Mycroft looks askance at him. "What, deprive myself of the ritual battle of wills? So not going to happen; The Great Sprout Wars are the only thing that makes Christmas dinner remotely entertaining."

Sherlock's anxiety ratchets up another notch. Mycroft has never been one to help him on occasions like these. He should have known better than to ask.

When he enters the dining room, it is with a sense of foreboding. The scenario is almost exactly as he had envisaged it when lying upstairs on the bed. His father is already hacking his way into the turkey and not for the first time, Sherlock wonders why they’ve never asked the only surgeon in the family to use his professional knife skills. There’s a fire going in the grate and he spots a photo album open on the coffee table; it must have been his father this time boring John with family snaps as they downed their champagne. Sherlock steals a glance while walking past and is relieved to find that what they've been looking at are his grandfather's service photos from WW2. He'd been a Captain, too—Navy, though, not Army like John.

Mycroft is already seated, and John is following suit. Sherlock’s eye is drawn to the bay window where a pile of crackers sits, awaiting the end of the meal. He'd been so focused on trying to get through the impending assault on his taste buds that he’d nearly forgotten the worst part of the whole farce. When their main course is cleared away, his mother will douse the Christmas pudding in brandy and then set it alight, bearing it as some sort of burnt offering to the deities of bad cuisine into the dining room. Then, they will wrestle the crackers between them and then the bang of the poppers will startle him at the same time as the ignited sulphur in the snap attacks his nose. To top it all off, his mother will insist on exclaiming on the trinkets inside, reading the lame jokes, and forcing them all to wear the ridiculous paper crowns. It’s going to be the final humiliation of the day, and it is all too much to bear.

One look at John’s smile, though, and Sherlock's intense desire to flee evaporates. _Can he really be enjoying this?_ Sherlock stifles his incredulity; he knows his partner well enough to know that the smile is genuine. John has endured so much of Sherlock's eccentricities over the past year, so can he really have the heart to upset his husband, now?

The rhetorical question is enough to make Sherlock drop into the chair and open his napkin.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Well before the others have finished their first helping, Sherlock's appetite is sated. He has eaten only what he wants off the plate, pushing the turkey and sprouts to the side. Not a drop of that foul gravy has touched any of it, a fact which he has concealed by smearing port jelly in strategic spots to make it look like as though he'd had every intention of consuming the incinerated turkey.

A silent observer of the others, he watches as Mycroft’s gift of what he claims is a fine vintage claret is consumed and the voices of the others grow louder in the manner of people enjoying themselves.

When there's a lull in conversation, his father asks Sherlock what the birdlife in Malawi was like. Explaining factual things has always been the easiest conversational path for him, and he's happy to explain about the avians which frequented the surroundings of their house, and the oddities and rarities they’d encountered elsewhere. As he speaks, he tries to spot signs on his dad's features that he's getting bored, that Sherlock has gone on too long about the topic. ' _Other people don't get as obsessed with things as you do_ ,' Mummy had often told him. ' _Just a couple of observations will do, then it's time to move on and let others speak_ ,' she always explained.

John listens to him more patiently than others do. Medicine is their shared passion, which enables long conversations on the topic. John will change the subject if he gets bored, relieving Sherlock of the pressure of knowing when to stop and move on. Why couldn't his mother also do that, instead of lecturing him in front of others?

John hastily swallows down a forkful of turkey; he obviously has something to say. "Did you tell them about the elephant sanctuary we visited in Chipiti near the capital?"

"No," Sherlock replies. _Should I have? Why?_

"Poachers are still a big problem in the country, and plenty of baby elephants get orphaned. There's a sanctuary at the outskirts of a national park where they take them in and look after them. Not all can be released to the wild, but the ones they can pair with a foster mother—they've got some females who've lost their young who can do that—might have a chance. The work they do is hard but amazing."

"Sounds wonderful, John," George says.

"That place just might become our favourite charity," John adds and skewers a forkful of roast potato. "They fundraise directly, instead of relying on larger charities which have to take a bigger cut for marketing and infrastructure costs. It's nice to have seen the place one's money goes to. Just like with the donations to St Mary's hospital," John praises, flashing Sherlock an encouraging smile.

"You've always liked zoos, haven't you?" Violet asks Sherlock, probably not expecting an answer beyond a nod.

"It's not a zoo, mother," Mycroft clarifies.

"And not all zoos operate in a very ethical manner. Especially not marine parks housing cetaceans," Sherlock explains. "The elephant sanctuary is a conservation initiative that engages the local population in protecting and re-wilding the calves who are the innocent victims of poachers killing their mothers. It's not a problem affecting just elephants. It's very dangerous for the villagers who get in the way of the organised gangs who are poaching; they've got machine guns. We got involved in solving a murder related to poaching earnings while we were out there."

"A murder…" Violet cuts in. “Well that rather proves my point, doesn't it? You seem to get involved in violent situations." She turns to John again. "You took such good care of my boy out there, John. He gets all these ridiculous ideas which push him straight into danger without a whiff of realism as to what he can do to protect himself."

 _God, she's like a broken record_.

"Ideas such as what, exactly?" Sherlock asks sharply. "You make it sound as though I do nothing but stumble about stupidly. I did my research: Malawi is one of the safest countries in southern Africa. The odds of medical personnel in Malawi being injured are lower than they are in London, given the fact that we commute to King's by car. I would _never_ take John to any location with an ongoing armed conflict. Our work in Malosa was invaluable for the people out there and it wasn’t purely a charity thing; the work experience broadened my skills as a surgeon and made me appreciate the opportunity to be innovative. Improvisation in the face of adversity stretched both of us, so how about not always assuming the worst of me." He glances at John, expecting backup but then realises that John is going to be too polite to antagonise their hosts.

Eventually, John flashes a slightly apprehensive smile. "I was sceptical about an overseas assignment, at first. I thought Sherlock might've been thinking that I'd feel a need to do something like that every once in a while, but I'd had my fill of danger in Afghanistan and honestly hadn't at all considered returning to any kind of work abroad. What I didn't realise was that Sherlock needed a bit of a breather from King's, too. He chose well; we both benefited a lot."

Mycroft helps himself to more gravy on the second helping of turkey that his father had just deposited in front of him. "Until you got Dengue fever. That’s not exactly something that is common in south London."

John shrugs. "Not pleasant, I’ll grant you. But, I worry more about some idiot high on meth stabbing me at the King's A&E than I worried about our safety in Malosa. And, Sherlock was brilliant at sorting things out and looking after me with the Dengue. Just like he was in––" suddenly, John snaps his mouth shut.

He must have remembered that Sherlock's parents don't know that Mycroft had arranged for him to join John in Afghanistan after he got injured. Ten minutes before boarding his flight at Brize Norton, Sherlock had wrenched, for the third time, a promise from even his brother that the fact would remain classified. _I'd never hear the end of it from Mummy_. Even though John has just dodged that bullet for him, even the little that they have just revealed about their planning process before Malawi is more personal than Sherlock would have preferred to discuss with his mother, and it's impossible to predict how she will interpret the information. Sherlock doubts it'll change her belief that their work in Africa was all just Sherlock's thoughtless whim. He's relieved when Violet doesn't interrogate either of them further but plunges instead into an interrogation of Mycroft regarding his work.

Eventually,second helpings are dished out; Sherlock declines quietly, making Mummy snipe at him: "After all that pointless exercise, I would have thought you'd work up an appetite. You're so terribly skinny still; not a good idea, that African thing, was it, with all the strange food—right after you lost so much weight with your neck problem," she berates.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He feels protective of the good memories they made in Malosa and doesn't want to share any more of them with her.

Thankfully Violet gets distracted by Mycroft who begins asking about recent events in the village. Apparently, across Plumpton Road, the Townings have set up a new farm shop and tea room. Always the observer, never the participant, Sherlock keeps a low profile, determined for John's sake to get through this somehow. After village news slow down to a trickle, Father cuts across the conversation to engage John, getting him to talk some more about Malosa and the political history of Malawi. Time and again, John tries to draw Sherlock into the discussion, but his monosyllabic answers eventually wear down his husband's enthusiasm and their conversation turns into a lively exchange on the merits of country-living versus the attractions of London.

Glancing around the table, Sherlock is relieved to see that the others have nearly finished eating. As soon as his father puts his fork down on his empty plate, Sherlock is on his feet to clear the table, hoping that his mother will be too distracted to notice how little he has eaten. She follows him into the kitchen, carrying a couple of nearly empty serving dishes. He hastily scrapes his plate’s contents into the dog’s bowl but doesn’t manage it without being noticed.

"You could have tried a little turkey, you know. It wouldn’t kill you."

Silence is the better part of valour in this case, so he grits his teeth, picks up the dish of brandy butter, and heads back to the dining room.

The Christmas pudding soon arrives in its blue-flamed glory. Crackers are snapped, and Sherlock is relieved that he ends up with two ends, rather than the centre part that holds the treats.

"Bad luck, dear boy. Take this one." His father tips out the contents: a folded joke, a plastic whistle, and a horrid yellow paper crown. Lucky for Sherlock, it tears when he tries to squash it over his curls, giving him an excuse to avoid it.

Just as he is beginning to think that he will get through the meal without incident, Mummy interrupts proceedings with a tap of her knife against her glass.

"Right, now that I have your attention, I thought I would use the moment to share some news. Starting in January, I’m going to be doing some pro bono work at the Chailey Heritage Foundation. They've asked me to join their board of trustees, helping them with their new fundraising and development plan."

She turns to John. "You won’t know what the CHF is; it's a charity school, with quite an interesting pedigree. It was set up here in Chailey in 1902 by Dame Grace Kimmins, who took over a derelict parish workhouse. She started with seven disabled children from the East End. It became the first purpose-built school in the country for children with disabilities. Sherlock didn't go there, of course, since it wasn't a very progressive place back then, but now it’s become internationally famous for empowering disabled young people, especially those with cerebral palsy, with educational services and residential courses to help them live independent lives. Turns out, they want me to help, given my extensive experience in such matters, and I've said yes. I mean, how could I say no? Isn't it my duty to pass on everything I have learned?"

There is something in that rhetorical question of hers that stabs right through Sherlock. He blinks rapidly, trying to parse the meaning in her statement, hoping it isn't what he thinks. Is she implying that somehow her _personal experience_ of raising him is giving her the idea that she has something to offer to disabled children? 

Mycroft chips in with his usual placation. "About time, I say. Your economic contacts should prove invaluable. The Duchess of Gloucester is the patron, if I recall. Danish, married the Queen's second cousin, who inherited when his elder brother died in an airplane crash. You will be hobnobbing with royalty, Mummy; congratulations." He raises his glass as a toast.

Smiling at the compliment, Mummy turns her attention to Sherlock's end of the table. "And, I will be looking at you two doctors in the family to play your part. The Foundation runs its own NHS clinic for the children in residential care. Given your interest in volunteer work, this is a lot closer to home than Africa, and a much more appropriate for your own specialty. I’ve been told there are a whole host of opportunities for you to get involved in research here on how neurosurgery could help deal with the effects of cerebral palsy.”

Sherlock feels the heat rising in his cheeks. _How dare she?_ He struggles to find words, and then blurts out, "I already have an extensive ongoing research project, and I make my own career choices, Mummy. I don't need you to interfere."

She opens her mouth to reply, but Sherlock is now glaring daggers at her. "As for what _beneficial_ _expertise_ you have deluded yourself into thinking you, _of all people_ , could possibly have to offer–––" The rest of what the sentence might have been sticks to the roof of his mouth when Mycroft stops him with his sternest warning glare. His brother even adds a subtle shake of his head. 

Sherlock scrambles to his feet and takes in the sight of his so-called family around the table. Mycroft continues eyeing him with wary, disappointed disdain. Father looks like he wants to escape to his workbench, and Mummy looks angrily expectant, challenging him to say what's on his mind so that she could berate, correct, and educate him. John is the only one with any softness in his expression but even he looks alarmed, sensing an impending conflict.

 _No_ , Sherlock decides. _I'm not doing this. Not anymore_. He's had enough of three against one; John doesn't know these people and he's too polite to really fight at Sherlock's side. This is not John’s war, and Sherlock is tired of trying to make his stand against an overwhelming force.

"I'm done," he announces. "I'm done with all of this."

He pivots on his heel, heads for the front door, grabbing the pull-over off the sofa as he passes by the living room.

John catches up with him just as he reaches the picket gate onto the street; he’s carrying their coats. "Sherlock, wait!"

He turns to face John but closes the gate between them. "What?"

"Don’t go off in a huff. I’m sure she means well."

"No, she doesn’t, and besides, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. You don't know her the way I do. If you did, you wouldn't insult me with such a claim." It takes every ounce of his mental reserves not to get angry at John, too.

"Let me come with you. I could do with walking off a bit of the meal."

Sherlock looks away, down the road lined with bare trees. If John comes with him, he'll try to make him talk, and he knows his residual anger might make him snap at his husband, too. He doesn't want that, because John is his only genuine ally in this Christmas purgatory. "No. Please stay and keep them happy, you're good at that. I just need some time on my own."

Unsurprisingly, John looks disappointed. Reluctantly, he hands over Sherlock's coat and scarf. "Well, at least stay warm. And don't be gone long. No need to repeat last night's fiasco."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "O Little Town of Bethlehem".


	11. And Stay By My Side

 

  
"And don't be long," John had said, as though Sherlock would listen in the mood he was in.

John does understand why he'd walked out. The tension in the house between mother and son is reaching unprecedented heights, and John knows from experience how difficult it is for even an adult child to confront a parent about their shortcomings, how challenging it is not to fall back on old communication patterns. There is a stark contrast between Sherlock right now and Sherlock during one of their holiday trips where he tends to be all smiles, libido on fire and excited to explore new places. Now, he's wound up tighter than the old bedsprings in his room upstairs, and John suspects that the only thing keeping him from exploding into telling everyone and everything off is the knowledge that it might change little except that it would fuel the fire of Violet's convictions.

John wishes he could do something to fix things but he's a stranger in this house—a welcome one, but a stranger all the same—in comparison to being family. He's not part of that dynamic so he doubts he could pierce the veil of it deep enough to change things. He could defend Sherlock, could step in, but would that only serve to exacerbate Violet's treatment of Sherlock as someone who can't fend for himself, can't look after himself? _Damned if you do, damned if you don't._

John shakes his head as he stands by the fence and watches Sherlock disappear into the darkening afternoon. _Let him walk it off_ , he tells himself. Most of the Christmas traditions that so stretch Sherlock's nerves are now over and done with, so the next few days should be easier and more relaxing. Sherlock has his mother's temperament, and when it flares up like a solar corona there's no point in trying to get him to see sense, to seek a more diplomatic solution.

It's been a strange Christmas so far. Before, Sherlock had been rather good at borderline gracefully, if broodingly, sidestepping Violet's motherly and overwhelming attention, and John had assumed that it's because Sherlock can understand that she is just so happy to have the whole family together. John can appreciate the sentiment, as he can appreciate a Christmas where no one frightens others, turning a celebration into tragedy.

John sighs and returns to the house, allowing himself to be seduced by the crackling fire in the sitting room, a film on TV and a glass of port offered by Mycroft.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Three hours later, John ignores Violet Holmes' worried, chattering exclamations as she helps him don his coat in the foyer, and grabs his car keys from a side table. Her fussing is now getting on his nerves as well.

Just like yesterday, it has gone dark, and Sherlock has not returned. And, of course he still doesn't have a phone with him.

John has been deep in thought for the last hour, going through in his head the events of the last twenty-four hours, and it's dawning on him that Sherlock is clearly deeply unhappy, and, being so close to the man, this has now infected John with a restless worry that will threaten to drive a wedge between him and the other Holmeses. So, he had told Violet he was going to go look for Sherlock. Unsurprisingly, she has been ranting about her younger son ever since, berating his carelessness and irresponsibility. John is biting his tongue hard to keep from telling her to shut up. George has offered twice to come with him, and John has sternly but politely declined. He wants to talk to his partner alone.

There are very few places in the area Sherlock could have gone to, so it's not _that_ idiotic an idea to take the car and go find him. He hadn't taken Natch with him, and he's wearing his leather Oxfords, so it's unlikely he's gone anywhere more rugged than down the roads to the village.

"There's the Snowdrop Inn and the Five Bells—nothing else will be open—but he would never go to those places," Mycroft points out from the sitting room.

John knows the Snowdrop Inn and the Five Bells are the local pubs, having been to both with George. There are other ones, including The Fox & Hounds and The Sloop Inn, but they are much further away. Still within walking distance, though, especially for a man fuming so hard that they wouldn't be very aware of distance or time.

"The King’s Head Inn isn't far, but we've never been there with him," George points out. "He doesn't drink, and he's never liked pubs."

John doesn't reply. When angry, Sherlock might do just about anything he normally doesn't, just to spite himself and everybody else.

"He seems so _nervous_ after what happened before Christmas," Violet announces.

 _And you're not helping_. "He knows the area like his back pockets; I'm sure he'd be back eventually," John assures the worried faces observing his departure. "If anyone's getting lost, it's going to be me," he jokes. “Thank God for SatNav.”

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


The Snowdrop Inn is open—and heaving. A half-timbered building at the edge of Lindfield with low ceilings and visible beams, it is the quintessential countryside pub, and John is terribly tempted to join the throng at the bar to order a pint. The tables are tucked close to one another, and the intimate setting, especially as full of people as it is now, would definitely repel Sherlock. John isn't surprised not to find him there.

His next stop is The Farmers, a pub he'd forgotten about, at the intersection of Lewes Road and Church Road. There, he questions his choice to check out all these establishments; as George had said, Sherlock certainly doesn't patronise such places. But, where the hell else would he have spent hours? Walking around in the rain that's almost sleet, now, which begun pelting down soon after he left would mean ruin for his coat and his shoes. Could it be that he's too riled up to care, in which case John has more country roads to search than he has hours tonight.

Sighing, he turns onto something the SatNav lists as Church Road, aware that he's now just driving around randomly. Soon, he arrives at the corner of Saint Augustine's—a small village church, squat-towered in grey stone. Just as he's about to pass the churchyard, a red dot glowing in the dark catches his attention, and he slows down since there's nobody behind him. The streets are empty, the weather and the fact that it's the eve of Christmas Day having kept people indoors. All but Sherlock, who apparently couldn't stand it in his parents' house anymore. He's sitting on a bench next to a notice board, smoking.

John pulls into the narrow, paved path from the road to the church; the width of their BMW barely fits. He turns off the engine and gets out.

Sherlock never wears hats, so his hair is plastered against his scalp. He's shielding the cigarette he holds between his right middle and forefinger with his left hand so that it wouldn't go out. His hands are shaking a little; whether from cold or something else, John isn't sure.

Instead of long ones to savour the taste, he's taking frequent, short, compulsive puffs. _Nerves_ , John decides. He goes to sit next to Sherlock, pretending not to be bothered by the fact that his hair is turning into a wet mess as well. _Should have brought my gloves_ , John thinks as he sticks his hands into the pockets of his Canada Goose parka. He lets his eyes linger up the church tower, and neither of the two men says anything for some time. John does feel a compulsion to lighten the mood, to make a joke, but, given the mood Sherlock is still likely to be in, any humour is bound to be picked apart and misunderstood.

"Took them all of three hours to crack and send out the search party, then," Sherlock finally says. His voice lacks the bite the sarcasm would have needed to work.

To John he sounds… haunted. Tired. As though he had both wanted to be found and feared it at the same time.

"Where'd you get the cigs?" John stops himself from berating his partner for breaking his long nicotine abstinence. Though Sherlock hasn't used anything worse in the time they've been together, John reminds himself that things could be worse than just a few smokes.

"The sardine can of a pub on Snowdrop Lane."

"Could have smoked those there, they've got a heated courtyard in the back used as a smoking area."

Sherlock gives him a glance that signals he's a madman. "Couldn't stay there," he mutters.

"What do you mean, 'couldn't'?"

Sherlock's silence is determined, furious, reinforced. This is something he doesn't want to discuss. John has sat in pubs with him, and there was nothing about this particular one he thinks Sherlock would have found exceptionally off-putting. John licks his upper lip, leans against the backrest of the bench which is at an awkward angle for his bad shoulder, and hopes that the rainwater on the seat hasn't soaked through to his pants just yet. It's hard to tell since his bum already feels like it's well on its way to being frozen solid.

"I know you don't want to talk," he starts.

"Then act on that information."

Unfazed, John ploughs on. "What I do need to know is what you want to _do_. In the next few hours, in the next few days." They hadn't explicitly discussed how long they were going to stay, but John had assumed, just as Violet and George seem to be, that they would stay at least until Wednesday. It's now Sunday. "Do you want to get back home?"

Their flat on Baker Street has no Christmas decorations—not that Sherlock would probably want any—but the fridge is empty, too. A part of John very much wants to stay here, but not if it means continuing the war that's broken out between Sherlock and Violet. Their interactions have been strained before, but Sherlock has seemed to be able to leave her to her own devices when she gets preachy, and to take her statements with a grain of salt—sometimes even with a bit of humour thrown back at her. Something has changed, and John doesn't quite know what.

"I wish I could go back to work," Sherlock admits. "In _Malosa_ ," he adds bitterly. He drops the butt of the cigarette, grinds it into the gravel underneath his shoe. On the few occasions when John has observed him smoking, he fastidiously deposits the butts in a bin, and John can't help but be amused  by this sudden rebellious streak of littering on a churchyard.

"There's nothing for me here, there never was," Sherlock says.

"Is that a judgment on Sussex or the whole country?"

"Here." He digs out a lighter and the already half-smoked pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Don't," John says. "You won't be able to sleep if your head's swimming with that stuff." He smokes so rarely these days that having several at once will buzz him up and steal what little rest he might catch tonight.

Sherlock gives him a glance hard to interpret, but after a moment of hesitation, puts the lighter and packet of cigarettes back in his pocket.

"Let's go sit in the car at least," John suggests.

Sherlock exhales, then follows him to the vehicle with hunched shoulders. Once they're in their seats, John turns on the seat warmers and the climate control. Soon, the fogged-up windows begin clearing. He turns to lean on his side against the driver's seat.

Sherlock is watching the water streaking down the window on his side.

John knows his partner won't volunteer what's bothering him—not for lack of trust, but because he may not have that clear a view of it himself, or command of the words needed. So, he needs to make suggestions, ask questions and perhaps, his blind poking of the hornet's nest might coax out something important.

"I know we didn't get to talk about what happened at Paddington. That still bothering you?" John has no idea why this would lead to a stronger conflict with Violet than before, but it's a start. At least Violet seemed to believe it has something to do with what's going on.

The reply he gets isn't even a shrug, more of a half-shudder.

"I just don't get it, what's going on with you, so I have to ask," John pleads.

"Nobody ever does get it," Sherlock mutters.

"You don't like Christmas, do you?"

"It would be nice and simple, wouldn't it, if that was the whole truth? _'Sherlock hates Christmas_ '," he says, mocking his mother's voice, then sighs. "I might like some of it, if I could have it in a way that wasn't a constant reminder of how little they think of me. Everything is so difficult here."

John has known him long enough to know that word choices can be very telling. It's a major admission that he finds something difficult.

Sherlock warms his hands in one of the air con vents on the dashboard. "I know you appreciate it, what they do for the holidays. I don't begrudge you for it, but I can't stand it. Not right now."

Sherlock sounds less tense, now, than he'd been a moment ago or in the house. He has always seemed to be a little bit on edge, easily irritable and strained in his interactions because he tries so hard when they visit the cottage, but John now realises how through the roof his anxiety levels have been this year. By leaving the house, he has been able to do the only thing available to defuse the mounting tension: to remove himself from the situation and douse his brain with nicotine.

The solution John can provide him seems simple, now. And so very necessary. "We could head home tomorrow. I'm sure Mycroft can arrange his own way back when he wants."

"Tomorrow morning," Sherlock confirms, reaching next to his left ear to retrieve the safety belt.

"Alright," John says. "Tomorrow morning."

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Once back in the house, the minute Sherlock has toed off his shoes—he usually takes good care in opening and loosening the laces and arranging the shoes next to one another instead of just kicking them off like this, like a teenager in a huff—he disappears upstairs and locks himself in the bathroom. Soon, the sound of the taps turned on to full can be heard reverberating down the old plumbing.

John dutifully accepts an offer of a few cold slices of turkey and tea in the kitchen. Despite the description, Violet prepares for him a heaving plate of food which George complements with a glass of wine.

 _Better rip off the band-aid._ "It's been lovely, but we need to be heading home tomorrow morning."

Violet pivots on her heel, spatula in hand. "What? Why? Is it Mycroft? Does he need to get back to Zurich? Is there a crisis at his company? Why has he not said? _Mikey!_ " she shouts towards the sitting room.

"No, no, it's not that––" John tries but the man in question has already appeared at the kitchen door, opened laptop in hand.

"Yes?" Mycroft asks, visibly baffled at the impromptu assembly in the kitchen and his mother's alarmed expression.

Even Natch, roused by the conversation, appears by John's leg, wagging tail beating against his damp trousers.

"I'm afraid we'll be leaving tomorrow," John repeats.

As usual, it is George who has appraised the situation calmly and made the appropriate deductions. "Is everything alright, John?"

 _I have no idea_. Should he lie, say that either of them is needed at work because someone's off sick? Or, tell the truth and weather the interrogation? "I think it's best if we go," is the best he can do.

Mycroft's phone suddenly rings, and he takes himself and the laptop back to the sitting room, soon engaged in a relaxed conversation in French.

Violet puts down the spatula she is still wielding, and passive-aggressively pours John a glass of water. "John, if there is something we need to know, then you should tell us," she commands. "I know _he_ won’t," she adds with a scoff, glancing upwards.

"Does he know about–––" George says quietly, clearly directing his words to his wife. "Is that what this is–––"

She silences him with a stern look. "Not here, not now, George dear. We _agreed_."

John shoves a potato wedge into his mouth, feeling slightly whiplashed. Why is it his job to sift through everyone else's secrets all of a sudden? There's only one person he needs to focus on, and it's the one upstairs soaking in a hot bath.

He chooses his words carefully. "Sherlock is a bit stressed, and I think he needs a few days at home before we go back to work."

He's half relieved, half annoyed, when this seems to thaw Violet. "Oh, John, it's so wonderful that you know him so well. He's not aware of these things, you know, that's why he needs all the help he can get to manage."  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
That night, Sherlock's tossing and turning in the throes of restless dreams keeps John awake. At one point, after the rain has ended, he can make out Sherlock staring at the ceiling in the faint moonlight streaming in through the old curtains. "Nightmares?" he whispers, though he suspects he knows already that the answer is yes.

Sherlock's answer is a non-committal hum, and he turns to face the wall away from John.

"About anything particular?" He can't resist reaching out and ruffling Sherlock's messy curls a bit, the shuffling closer to spoon him from behind, the duvet doubled between them.

"Just… old things."

"Family stuff? School stuff? Other stuff? How old?"

"I don't want to think about them."

_But you can't help doing so, can you?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Away In A Manger".


	12. When We Were Gone Astray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A content warning may well be pertinent for this chapter. Click the "See the end of the chapter for more notes" link if you wish to read it.

  
On the 28th of December, John jams his thumb on the power button of an infuser pump to stop dosing the patient with remifentanil. Clare, his anaesthesia nurse for today, injects a dose of a longer-acting opiate into the patient's IV. The remifentanil's effect is short but will linger just long enough for the screws of the Sugita headframe to be removed and the other opiate to kick in.

He is enjoying his rare day of clinical work. Getting to do it in Sherlock's OR would add to his enjoyment if it wasn't for the fact that his husband's foul mood is showing no signs of abating. John had hoped that a return to London would lift Sherlock's spirits, but the taxing drive home should have been indication enough that it wasn't going to happen. After marching out of the house without a word or breakfast for their early departure, Sherlock had fumed and ranted the whole way, even issuing a venomous blanket apology to John for his ' _past, current and all future Christmas-associated gaffes'_ , since he was, quote:  _'always doomed to ruin it for everyone else, according to HER_ '. Sherlock had then announced that he didn't give a whit about what she thought, to which John tentatively replied that if he didn't care, he wouldn't be so angry. To this, Sherlock's reply was a blistering sulk for the rest of the drive.

Thankfully, Mycroft had decided to make his own way back, heading straight for Gatwick and a flight to Zurich three days after the doctors were leaving. John had been relieved to avoid a repeat of the bickering between the brothers in the car. ' _For the record, you didn't do anything wrong_ ,' he had tried to tell Sherlock when they stopped to get coffee from a petrol station. _'She does cross the line, but that's what parents do, isn't it? Manage to piss us off in ways nobody else ever quite manages, hm?_ ' Sherlock's reply to this had been to climb back into the car, shift in his seat so that he was facing away from John, and continue his sulk by keeping his eyes fixed on the sleet-veiled landscape outside the car windows. John had just sighed; he knows his partner well enough by now to be able to tell when it's best just to give him space.

Since they had not prepared to return to London so early, the cupboards and the fridge at Baker Street had been empty. So, in a fit of inspiration, John scrambled to find somewhere they could stay in London for a mini-break since their bags were already packed. He'd managed to book a suite at an inn in Hampstead which had had a last-minute cancellation. They read books and watched films on the room's DVD player for the two days of their stay, and took their time having long walks on the Heath. The choice of restaurants in Hampstead was wide enough, the breakfasts at the inn were good, and the place lovely, but Sherlock didn't seem to be enjoying any of it.

So, John found himself hoping that a return to work and other routines would break the logjam. He knows staying in Sussex sometimes irritates the hell out of Sherlock, but usually, he solves the issue by steering clear of his mother and spending time with his father. He had seemed on edge before they had even arrived, and things had just gone downhill from there. It's hard to separate the effects of the mugging from the family drama, but in hindsight, John realises that what happened at Paddington may have played a more significant role that he had at first appreciated.

And, those effects seem to be lingering—going back to work had solved nothing. Sherlock has been…quiet, withdrawn, irritable when approached, rattled and even a bit jumpy. He's had darker periods before, but none have featured the sort of pained, restless, agitated anxiety now ruling his interactions with others.It had surfaced in Sussex, but John can't quite see how it could be connected solely to going home for the holidays.

Sherlock has a new phone now, and new bank and credit cards, and everything is fine except for the watch he'd lost. What's bothering him can't be a money issue—Sherlock has plenty of it, which is probably why he hadn't wanted to waste time filing a police reportfor insurance. Still, if it had been John who'd been relieved of his possessions, he would have done so even if just out of principle.

Whatever it is, Sherlock is silent about it, leaving John to a frustrating game of guess-the-reason. Could what's going on be a delayed adjustment process back to London after their Malawi adventure? After all, Sherlock had been in a funk before they'd left for Malosa and nothing has really changed—except the man himself—during their absence. Maybe whatever episode Sherlock is having is something that has been brewing for a long time, and recent events have just been a catalyst. Regardless, John wishes he could get to the bottom of it instead of watching this yo-yoing between silence and verbal punching. What looks like a Sherlockian version of depression at home turns into uppity anger and an odd, aggressive resignation at work, which is indeed new. Well, new for the Sherlock John has grown to know; in many ways, this is what the man had been like when they'd first met: aloof, unapproachable, aggressive.

 _Resentful_.

That's a word Mycroft had used when they were gathering their things in the hall of Sherlock's parents' house. Sherlock was already in the car, having dumped his bag on the floor before donning his coat. He had hurried out without so much as a glance at his parents, leaving John to handle saying goodbye.

' _He's always been so resentful. Christmas dinners used to be a nightmare before you came along_ ,' Mycroft commented dryly to John, passing him his scarf. ' _Merry Christmas, John, despite all._ '

Violet had then hurried to the foyer to give him a hug and a kiss. ' _There's no talking to William when he's in a mood, he's never been good at that_ ,' she told John. ' _Look after him_ ,' she prompted, worry deepening her frown lines.

 _I'm trying_ , John thinks, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

He watches Sherlock remove the scalp clips so that he can close the incision. He has been fast today, isolating an anatomically tricky arterio-venous malformation from circulation and removing it in just three hours. Minimal bleeding, no hemodynamic instability despite operating in an area which might well produce vagal responses. Not much has been spoken during the operation except for Sherlock requesting instruments. He hadn't even wanted any music. It's as though he'd wanted to concentrate only on the surgical field, profoundly focussing to drown out everything else. The OR has always been where he shines, a kingdom he rules, a place where his focus narrows into what he sees in his microscope. ' _My mind calms downs during the problem-solving of neurosurgery: what instruments to choose, which route to take, how much of a tumour to remove, should I use a temporary clip, is this too close to a cranial nucleus. When I'm operating on something challenging enough, I can filter out everything else_ ', he had once told John. ' _Without enough cerebral stimulation, I feel like a rocket, tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad_.'

A challenging and successful operation like this would normally put him in a great mood. John has a hunch that's not going to happen this time.

He knows Violet has been trying to call Sherlock to no avail. Sherlock has spoken with Mycroft, once and briefly, and the call had mainly consisted of protesting the fact that Mycroft had given their mother Sherlock's new mobile number. George has never had a habit of calling; John has the impression that he leaves communications with their children to Violet since she is so active in such matters.

Sherlock is about to take control of the needle holder he's being offered when the OR doors slam open.

" _Holmes!_ " Philip Anderson bellows, angrily grabbing a mask from a cardboard box on a table and tying it on. He's wearing scrubs with a coffee stain on the left knee."You're stealing my goddamned patients!"

Sherlock puts the needle holder back onto the Mayo table and shifts his weight. He leans his head first to his right, then his left shoulder, grimacing since his neck must have gotten a bit stiff. "I'm taking over a case ill-suited for you. You should be thanking me."

"You can't reassign cases; I saw Mrs Heynes at outpatient, and she's expecting _me_ to operate! Now they tell me you've already seen her at the ward and told her she's on your list for tomorrow."

"I've had a cancellation and have no desire to spend tomorrow twiddling my thumbs. Everyone knows you are no more a posterior fossa surgeon than an orangutan sitting in a picnic basket trying to work out which end of a knife to hold. Now shut up, you’re putting me off my current operation."

Anderson huffs, crosses his hands and shifts to standing closer to the patient's feet where John and Clare are finishing up their record-keeping.

"He’s on fine form, isn't he?" the older surgeon says to John. "I thought you'd taught him some manners, but clearly, he's worse than ever. I'm filing a complaint."

"Then join me at this end to tell that to my face, instead of running to John like people always do," Sherlock cuts in venomously.

"They wouldn't have to if you could ever be reasoned with—if you were capable of normal bloody human communication," Anderson retorts and starts marchingout. Unfortunately, it's hard to make a dramatic exit when the doors operate electronically and with a delay. "Bloody showoff _freak_ ," he mutters just as he slips into the corridor.

Sherlock's eyes narrow at the barb, but there is no hesitation in his hands: he closes the remaining part of the scalp incision, drops his instruments on a tray with a clink, and steps back to allow the scrub nurse to clean and cover the wound.

"Call Jones to come remove the Sugita," he announces, ripping off his gloves. Jones is the unit's newest Foundation trainee, and one Sherlock has been bossing around all week. Technically, Sherlock should be the one to take the screws off while John holds the patient's head, but it's a task all trainees have to learn, and the patient has a healthy cervical spine so it shouldn't be a problem in an OR full of expert personnel if Sherlock lets Jones do it on his own. He strides out of the OR without even a glance at John, let alone thanking his team.

After waking up the patient—she regains consciousness quickly, and there are no neurological deficits—John and Clare transport her to the post-anaesthesia recovery area. There she will stay overnight under close observation before being moved to a regular bed ward. Satisfied that all her post-op instructions are in order, John heads to the OR floor break room to find Sherlock.

Thankfully, his husband is the only person there.

"Care to explain what that was about, then, with Philip?" John asks, getting himself a mug of tea from the tank on the table.

Sherlock shrugs and turns a page in the scientific journal he's skimming through. "The Botch being The Botch. He doesn't know what's good for him."

"Maybe there's another surgeon currently present who doesn't know that, either. Is it really worth it having to go through some inquiry he's going to whip up?"

"There's always going to be someone making inquiries and complaints about me. He's threatened to whip up some nonsense for years, and it never goes anywhere."

"People were not complaining much about you last year. Now, I worry that's going to change."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Alright,  _enough_ _!_ " John snaps. "This is _me_ , Sherlock. What the hell's up with you?" Trying to be subtle or clever about asking Sherlock such things hasn't ever worked, and a direct line of inquiry is also unlikely to produce results, but at least John's frank question will inform Sherlock that his game's up. "You were doing so well before we even left for Malosa, and things seemed to change for you in lots of good ways there, but now it’s all gone. Just like that. Why?" John demands.

Sherlock toes off his trainers and gathers his legs underneath him on the worn sofa. He's not looking at John. "I might have changed, but everyone else has stayed exactly the same, so what’s the point in even trying? They'll never expect me to reach their standards, so I'll be forever banging my head against a wall."

"The point of trying is to make _your_ life easier,helping people see you—the  _real_ you. I know it was different in Malosa––"

Sherlock scoffs. "We're not there anymore, and nobody wants to see the real me. _I'm_ not fond of the real me, so why should anyone else feel any different?"

John's anger evaporates, leaving behind a worry more intense than John cares to admit. He sits down next to his husband. "Sherlock, that's really not––"

A head of curly hair flattened by an OR cap already removed whips up to face him. "Don't forget three o'clock," Sherlock cuts John off.

"I remember, and I set the alarm on my phone in case I get caught up somewhere. I still think GA for a check-up and the oral hygienist is overkill."

It's Sherlock's annual dental appointment today, and he needs an adult companion to take him home according to the rules of the private clinic he goes to since he'll be given general anaesthesia. Two years ago, John had sat down with Jennifer Mayle, the dental clinic’s anaesthetist who is his classmate from medical school, to work out a combination of sedatives for Sherlock that would allow a quick recovery and minimal amnesia without the nausea he gets from just nitrous oxide alone. No, Sherlock high on it is no laughing matter, not for him nor for anyone working on his mouth. Two appointments using the new drug regime have already gone well, but Sherlock's preceding anxiety has admittedly been hard to watch. Still, going from sedation back to a full GA is a huge step backwards.He used to receive a general anaesthetic once a year because even the smaller things done by a dentist or an oral hygienist without at least a sturdy level of sedation were too much for his sensory issues.

This is yet one more thing in which Sherlock suddenly seems to have decided to go back to square one—to the days before John."You were doing so well with the laughing gas and the meds," John pleads.

Sherlock shrugs. "I’m embracing my deficiencies. Isn’t that what you all want me to do, to live in constant awareness of them?" He stands up, stretches his back, then prepares to retreat from the room.

John grabs hold of his arm. "Something's clearly bothering you, and I think some of it started before Christmas. If I've done or said something—"John doubts this is his fault, but if Sherlock won't tell him what's wrong, then he'll need to employ a process of elimination.

"The problem isn't you or other people; it's _me_. It doesn't matter what I do, whether I change or not, other people never have to make such an effort. They don't score points for behaving like a normal person, and I'm not interested in that anymore, either." He shakes off John's hand but doesn't leave. His tone tells John that he's now looking for a fight.

John crosses his arms. _I'm not giving you one_. _You're just trying to distract me from what's really going on_. "Remember when you once told me that I wasn’t facing the fact that had I some issues I really needed to sort out?" he asks, not expecting a reply. "Well, I’m telling you that same thing, now. I don’t like what I’m hearing; it’s obvious something’s not right, and you need to deal with it."

Calling it depression is a bit too simple, though all of the signs are there: Sherlock is smoking again, he’s not sleeping, he has no interest in things he used to enjoy. The grandiose behaviour, the pre-emptive strikes against people Sherlock subconsciously fears might hurt him are all things John had seen before when Sherlock had first come to King's College to finish his training. They're a desperate defence tactic. Even if he’s doing his best at work to project a sociopathic sort of nonchalant confidence, John knows him well enough to see past it. 

He stands up, tries to wrap his arms around Sherlock's tense form. He flinches and shifts away.

"I’m just... tired," Sherlock excuses, muttering the words towards a wall.

What John hears is: _it’s exhausting to be me_ _right now_.

"We’ll have a nice, quiet night in," John promises. "Maybe we can talk. Or maybe you could talk to, I don’t know, Joanna Pichler maybe?" It's a risky move to mention the psychiatrist because Sherlock talking to her is a touchy subject at the best of times.Mentioning her might make Sherlock suspect that John is trying to chalk his problems up to his being on the Spectrum. _Who the hell knows—maybe they are?_

"She’s not my therapist," Sherlock snaps. "I don't need her. They're all useless."

John has noted before that Sherlock always reiterates the fact that he thinks he's just consulting a colleague whenever they mention Doctor Pichler. John knows that what his protestations really mean is: _I don’t want to need one._

John knows the feeling, but needs must."Useless like Molly? I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that she saved our relationship by helping me."

"Nobody gets to tell me what to do anymore," Sherlock announces, glaring at him.

Voices are coming from the corridor, signalling that they won't be alone for much longer.

"What do you want from me, John?" Sherlock suddenly asks, and the righteous anger is gone. "What is it that you’re expecting, in the long run?"

"I don’t want anything from you. What I want for you is to be happy, for _us_ to be happy together—for this, whatever it is, to pass."

"It doesn’t pass. It just is. Always has been, always will be. It's just that, on occasion, I manage to fool myself into thinking it’s not there every second of every day."

The doors open to reveal the rest of their OR team, thirsty for tea and hungry for biscuits. Sherlock strides off, shoulders tense and hands shoved into his scrub trouser pockets before the door even closes. The glimpse of his expression that John catches is no longer icy but resigned.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
 

  
Sherlock leaves the neurosurgical unit's monthly meeting early because it'll give him time to have a smoke before John is due to meet him in the garage.

The assembly had been the usual: a melange of uninteresting bureaucratic announcements, bickering over call coverage, a lacklustre presentation on Arnold-Chiari malformations by the most recently arrived trainee. There was much there Sherlock could have corrected, and many things were discussed regarding the running of the department regarding which he had an opinion, but what would have been the point of speaking up? The other consultants often dismiss what he says merely because he is the one saying it.

_Idiots. Idiots rule this hospital, this Trust, and the whole goddamned country._

Just as he shoves open the staff entrance leading to the garage, his phone begins vibrating in his pocket. His own new phone, not the one he is assigned for work which he has already left on his desk in the office he shares with another consultant.

The caller ID reads _Violet Holmes_. It's the third time since Christmas. She never texts and despises email. He presses the disconnect button and drops the phone into the pocket of his jacket, then rummaging around the opposite side for his lighter and the reassuring, soft rustle of the cigarette packet.

' _Smoking clogs your arteries'_ , the text on the package says. There's an image of a necrotic toe on it. He shrugs. He knows all this, and he doesn't care. He knows smoking increases the risk of most cancers, accelerates arteriosclerosis, increases the risk for aneurysm rupture.

 _We all die_. To feel a little calmer about all that he needs to suffer through before that happens, he needs the nicotine. After two cigarettes a pleasant buzz has set in, and he can practically imagine neural pathways reorganising, streamlining their message traffic. Time to head down to the lockers to fetch his Belstaff and his scarf, and to hide the smoking paraphernalia so that he'll have access to them tomorrow.

After hurrying down the set of steps down to the locker room assigned to the neurosurgical unit and striding to the right row, Sherlock's steps come to a halt.

There's a green post-it note stuck to his locker door. Alice hasn't been leaving them in a long time. Sherlock had thought they were past all that.

' _You're constantly in a mood_ ,' it starts, _'and taking it out on everyone else._ ' As she always does, Alice has signed it with her first name.

Somehow, seeing it hits harder than John's words about something being wrong. Sherlock knows he had made things right with Alice after their rocky start, and successfully training her had been the first time in his life he had fought his way through difficulties with the help of a voluntarily consulted professional. He doesn't want to lose that feeling. Everything else can go to hell, but Alice is _his_ accomplishment, _his_ protege. But, Alice is a consultant, now, and she will leave soon. The thought of being saddled with some other trainee is a heavy weight on his shoulders, and he has never been less motivated to deal with other people than he is right now. His failures tower over his meagre successes; after all, dealing with Alice had required a lot of extra support from Joanna Pichler. It hadn't been the trainee who had special needs; it had been the mentor.

He grabs the offending piece of paper, crumples it up and throws it into the bin by the sink.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
The next day, everything starts off just _wrong_. Sherlock wakes up late since he hadn't set the alarm. John is nowhere to be found and, only after checking their synced calendar on his phone, does Sherlock realise he's forgotten that John had left for Liverpool on a very early train. He's in an auditing team or some other pointless nonsense.

John's absence means no ride to work and no breakfast at home. Sherlock skips having a shower since he's already late and goes to Speedy's to get coffee. The restless morning masses of commuters, screaming children and a large, sweaty man with terrible halitosis in the queue right behind him stretches his patience to near a breaking point. He inhales a double espresso, then somehow endures the Tube and Overground ride to King's. With no John to distract him, the events at Christmas echo once again around in his head. It's good that he has to work today; at least it'll provide something else to think about.

He heads to the outpatient clinic to find his morning session fully booked. During the appointments, he knows he's being forgetful and distracted, and Marie seems to pick up on it. Or, perhaps she's tense because of their strained schedule.

Sherlock doesn't bother filtering what he says to her. _It doesn't matter. None of it matters._ A patient yells at him because he won't operate on their back for the third time. Why the hell is he even seeing the patient, since Lestrade is the premier spinal fusion surgeon of the bunch, and two other surgeons have already said no?

The patient announces that they are going to seek yet another opinion.

"Please do, as long I don't have to see you ever again," Sherlock replies. "No surgeon worth their salt would say yes, no matter how loudly you shout at them about litigation."

"Psychopaths, the bloody lot of you!" the man yells at him, then storms out.

"That's a new one," Sherlock mutters. He'd much rather be a psychopath than what he is. _Better to be feared than it is to be pitied._ Not that there will be any pity from now on. He's done with trying to please everyone, to play by their rules. They don't even notice, and all it achieves is making him miserable.

He skims through the rest of their clinic list. All post-operative controls. He'll be expected to discuss returns to work, pain medications, and other mundane things instead of planning surgeries. _They have no idea what I've done for them. Why won't the Trust let me just operate? Someone else could handle this post-operative nonsense_.

He looks out the window, and a frighteningly profound sense of helpless stagnation overwhelms him. He wants to get his coat, walk out, continue walking for God-knows-how-long. He wants to be left alone, wants to disappear, and only Marie's determined sticking to routine somehow gets him through the rest of the list. He feels like he's on autopilot, and the sense of dissociation is alarming but makes it easier to curb his anxiety over how to behave.  

He's almost relieved when Lestrade calls him at lunch and asks him to supervise two laminectomies by a registrar. They will be slow, so the cases will stretch past rush hour, so the Tube won't be as bad when he leaves the hospital—or, he might even manage to hail a cab. He'll sit in the OR, give instructions, catch up on paperwork on his laptop while the registrar works. He doesn't want to go home because John isn't there; his company has, lately, been the only thing that makes Sherlock's existence bearable. He knows that he is neglecting his research, he's not sleeping, he has no appetite. He's felt this way before but back then, he'd always had a goal to distract himself with—something that would make him grit his teeth and push forward because he wanted to show everyone that he wouldn't be defeated.

Now, for all intents and purposes, he has reached all his goals. Yet, he's still…the same. Still himself and the way people look at him hasn't changed. This is what it's going to be like: he'll forever have to worry about reacting strangely to things, content himself with always pissing people off. Many of the people closest to him won't ever see anything but an awkward child failing at everything, and half of the time not even he understands what goes on in his head.

After watching the registrar fumble about for an hour in the OR, Sherlock ends up doing most of the work, anyway. The registrar is in tears at one point when Sherlock offers some choice commentary on his skills, after which the scrub nurse is giving Sherlock the stink eye for reasons he doesn't bother to contemplate. The trainee is certainly no Alice, who had demonstrated satisfactory practical skills right from the start. Well, at least after she stopped being so frightened of Sherlock that she completely froze in the operating room.

By the time he leaves the OR floor, the corridors are empty, and the basement locker rooms empty. As much as crowds exhaust and overwhelm him, being down here or at the staff garage alone has been a trial lately. There is a constant sense of foreboding disaster, and he has to force himself not to hasten his steps, not to hurry when he changes his clothes. He knows he's being paranoid, ridiculously affected by something that happened in a very different kind of location miles from the hospital.

It's raining heavily, and he had forgotten all about the kidney disease conference happening at the hospital. The last symposium has just ended, so the taxi rank is hopelessly crowded. He tries Uber, but it's just his luck that his phone runs out of battery just as he's about to order one. He curses under his breath, then starts the walk to Denmark Hill Overground station. He doesn't have the luxury of calling John to rescue him; his husband won't be back until after nine. En route he keeps getting passed, crowded and rushed by conference participants and the students of nearby school heading home from extracurriculars. He wishes he'd brought an umbrella which could have provided some personal space in addition to shielding him from the rain. By the time he gets to the station that's heaving with people, he's terribly on edge, with his heart pounding and a nearly overwhelming need to escape. In the train carriage, he closes his eyes, counting the seconds to when he gets to walk out at Clapham High Street to change to the Northern Line.

Somehow, he manages to get as far as Embankment but there, the claustrophobia gets too bad, and he pushes brusquely past others onto the platform, runs up the escalators and out of the station, where he manages to hail a cab. The drive to Baker Street feels endless, but at least having the backseat to himself gives him a respite from the noise and the people. The driver is not happy when he brusquely tells him to turn off the radio, but Sherlock's comment that it's his money and his eardrums ends the protest.

When he gets to the haven of home, he doesn't feel any better. The flat still feels too… _new_. He's not used to the distances and geometry of the flat, and the clutter of many still unpacked cases on the floors makes him feel unsettled. The surroundings are unfamiliar, and he realises that this is the first time he's spent an evening at Baker Street on his own. Instead of feeling comfortable, he becomes aware of an ominously familiar sense of restlessness, of clouds gathering in the horizon, of an incessant electric hum at the back of his head, of the needle on a pressure cooker rising steadily towards red.

He paces, picks up the violin, puts it down, turns on the television, carries his violin around once more, then turns the TV off because the sound of it is like nails on a blackboard. His clothes constrict and itch, but changing into a T-shirt, jeans and his dressing gown doesn't help. Frustrated and irate, he pulls off his socks and throws them on the sofa. He feels hyper-aware of everything, and the smallest sounds from the street startle him, make him cringe. He feels like he's being watched, exposed and alone.

 _It's coming_.

Time drags on. He plugs in his phone, endures the endless minutes it takes for the phone to re-charge enough to be able to turn it on again. He texts John once, twice, three times, increasingly frantic messages demanding to know where he is, why he isn't here yet, why it's taking him so long to get home. John replies, but Sherlock has no patience to pick apart his words on the screen. The letters are all jumbled and make no sense.

_It's going to happen, and you can't stop it._

He stops pacing in the middle of the sitting room, a million thoughts fighting for attention, yet he can't grasp any of them, can't force any of them to be still long enough to be of any use. It's a stampede of words, images and sounds, and it mixes with those from the real world. His skin feels tight, nerve endings firing in distress.

For a moment, his fractured mind seizes on one solution, but the mechanics of it are beyond him. _Too late._ If he'd had a stash of cocaine in the flat it would be different, but he doesn't and he can't, and it won't be possible to stop the onrushing tide.

There's a sound from downstairs he can't recognise, and it feels as though it's sinking in through his skull, diving into his mind, burrowing in. There's a freight train of sensation coming, he _knows_ it is, and even thinking about it hurts like a tight band around his head. His stomach is in knots, churning and cramping. He feels fractured, in pieces, bits of him shedding as his distance to reality increases. He's drowning in his own head so how can he be so agonisingly aware of everything, yet feeling like he can't communicate at all with anything around him?

He's holding back a tsunami with his bare hands.

_You can't stop it. Run._

He knows what this is, and he'd rather die than have it happen in front of John, yet he can't be alone, can't be alone one second more; he needs someone to stop this, to do…what? John can't reach into his brain and flip an off switch.

Sherlock desperately needs to move, to leave, to flee, but he can't seem to will his body into motion. _What use is this bloody Transport if it can't do what its name dictates?!_

The world is shrinking. It's shrinking and soon he won't fit in it and will be pushed out, left at the mercy of his own disintegrating mind. His filters have shut down; everything is _wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong_ ––

It's too late, now, for preventative measures. He tastes vinegar, and everything is the bland yellow of an onion. He always knows it's too late when the vinegar comes and the sensations on his skin turn into noise in his ears—whistling and a dry sort of incessant plucking of a piece of metal. His chest feels tight, and something terrible is going to happen that he's unable to stop. This isn't panic, this isn't anxiety. This is something older, much more primaeval and uniquely, excruciatingly his alone, and he hates it, hates it, _hates it_ , hates himself for it.

In the distance, across oceans of noise in his head, the front door of the flat opens, the sharp sound like gunfire that coats his tongue with an aftertaste of blackish brown. Sherlock is on the floor, curled up against the sofa, sweat pouring out as he presses his palms against his ears, fingers coiling painfully into his curls. He wants to tear chunks of hair out so that it would hurt enough to reconnect with himself, but he's too far gone, it won't work now.

As far gone as he is, the awareness that John is somewhere close, speaking to him, floods him with bright red, pulsating shame. His eyes are pinched tight, and he needs John to stop talking, to stop making it worse, to not––

He yells at John to _go away_ , with no awareness of how loud his words are. He keeps repeating it since they are the only two words currently at his disposal, the rest scattered to the wind. The tears streaming down his face burn and irritate, and he buries his face in his arms, hiding behind them, fingers now coiling into fists at his sweaty neck. The desire to flee and hide is tearing at him, but he can't bring himself to move. He wants to throw things, to dig his nails into his head and rip out his perfidious brain that dares to do this to him years after the last time, years after he thought he could control it. His mind is a sieve; it's leaking things, and it's hard even to believe he'd ever had an intellect that could contain it.

The storm is here, and he's caught in it. All he can do is ride it out and hope that he's still alive and himself when it ends.  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Thank God the next day is a Saturday. Sherlock sleeps for twelve hours straight, having somehow made it to bed from the sitting room. _Maybe John had had something to do with that._ The exhaustion keeps him in bed long past waking up. His mother never let him rest after–– The word that sums up what had happened yesterday is like sour milk on his tongue, and he refuses to let it in. He feels worn, flat, numb, dull, ashamed and alone.

He should have spotted the signs. Meltdowns were not a frequent occurrence even in his childhood, but the stressors were logical: low mood, combined with too much sensory information, too much stress over how to behave, too much frustration.

_Why didn't it happen in Malosa or Afghanistan? Why didn't it happen with the halo?_

He reminds himself that asking such questions is pointless. Trying to find logic in the workings of his central nervous system was what his mother and plenty of other adults had attempted to do all through his childhood without success. On his darker days, Sherlock has wondered if having to fear this happening is similar in some ways to living with epilepsy or some other episodic neurological problem, in that there is a crushing awareness that the construct of control in one's life could be lost at any minute.

His embarrassment rejoices over the fact that John isn't hovering around him today. But, it might also mean that John is a bit shocked and doesn't know how to deal with him. They've been married for nearly a year; John hadn't known this is what he had signed up for. It may change _everything._ John has never seen this before, and he was never supposed to. Sherlock was supposed to have grown out of it. Supposed to have conquered it. Moved past it. He is terrified of the questions that John is going to ask, of the demand that he _talk_ about it, explain it. How can he? It had caught even Sherlock by surprise, and the inevitable questions are: will it happen again, and what could he do to prevent it?

 _This can't happen at work. It just can't._ The fear of that happening is a stabbing, blinding hit. Before, he hadn't even known such a fear was founded. He remembers John's words from days ago: that he has gone back to the way things were before. That he's _regressing_. He can't refute that, now. _Why is this happening?_

He doesn't get out of bed. He has no interest to do anything. Worries hang heavy like a weighted blanket, paralysing him. He's wrecking everything he's built, and it's not even him, just a _part_ of him he can never get rid of. A part that was faulty, wrong, defective to start with. He's had many good years of fooling himself into thinking that's not true anymore. He should have known that one day, his luck would run out.

At two in the afternoon, the bedroom door left ajar opens, and John quietly slips in. The bed dips as he sits on the edge, just next to Sherlock's knees which are drawn up to his chest under the duvet.

"I didn't think bringing you coffee was a good idea after last night," John says quietly. His hand hovers momentarily before landing on Sherlock's sheet-covered shoulder. It no longer feels frightfully irritating; he's just indifferent to the sensation.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but he does open his eyes. To his relief, John doesn't seem put off and confused. He just looks like… _John_ , the way he's always been, always observing Sherlock with a varying mixture of fond amusement and respectful worry when he thinks his partner is acting strangely. John squeezes his shoulder, and he appears to be biting into the inside of his lip. This is how he looks when he is hesitant to say something he can't avoid saying. Sherlock expects him to ask about last night, to ask about names and words and definitions, to humiliate him by making him relive the experience by describing it.

But, as often happens, John's straightforward approach to things is as positive a surprise—not that Sherlock would call _anything_ positive right now. What John asks—after nervously clearing his throat—is: "Should I call Joanna Pichler or can you manage it yourself?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very detailed description of an ASD meltdown in this chapter, as well as downright astral levels of self-loathing connected to that event. It's very possible to skip this chapter and still be able to easily follow the story from the start of the next chapter. The description is based on dozens of written personal accounts of such events; no two persons on the Spectrum are alike, so we have tried to avoid generalisations.
> 
> \------------------------------------------------
> 
> Chapter title is from "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen".
> 
> We are blown away by the reception to this story, and both intrigued and honoured how many readers have found personal resonance in the difficult relationship between Sherlock and his mother.


	13. Peace On Earth And Mercy Mild

 

  
"Hello, Sherlock. It's been awhile; it's good to see you."

"Is it? Patient retention means revenue, but is it good form to gloat when they come back because they need you again?" He takes a seat on the small sofa reserved for patients without prompting. He hadn't meant to start off so prickly, but he's in an irritable mood that does not allow for any appreciation of small talk.

"I enjoy working with my patients, especially the interesting ones," Doctor Joanna Pichler replies patiently, sidestepping his harsh words and taking a seat in her usual armchair. "Meaning the ones who challenge me."

Sherlock catches her trying _not_ to fix her gaze on the bruising still visible on his face. At work, it's what everyone has been latching on to ever since he went back after Christmas. _Infuriating_. _Can't they all just mind their own damned business?_ "I’m not a patient; I am _consulting_ you,” he corrects angrily. He then allows his eyes to trace one of the fish in the aquarium in the corner. The movement is calming, and the psychiatrist waits patiently for him to return to their dialogue. Finally, he shifts in his seat and directs his attention back to her.

"How is work?" she asks, and it's all so bland and predictable: the way she starts off easy, asking about things he isn't reticent to talk about such as King's and his research.

"It's fine." He presses his palms on his knees, hating how sweaty they are, knowing that it will betray to her the lie he's just uttered. He has downright conditioned himself to be nervous whenever he walks into this room. Why? Is he not here merely to consult a colleague, just as he has just reminded her?

Truth be told, he does know why, but is adamant not to think about those old things, determined not to be reminded. Not every therapist is like Joanna Pichler; he's met much worse. She doesn't deserve his ire, and it's his own time and money he's wasting. "Especially the eight months working in a rural hospital in Malawi. It was our honeymoon as well," he adds, a part of him swelling with pride at the thought of the ring covering the tattooed version on his finger. "We returned seven months ago."

"Congratulations," she offers. "A working honeymoon—what a brilliant idea. Working abroad must have been quite an experience."

"For someone like me, you mean."

"For anyone."

"John thought that I should have consulted you before deciding to go." He huffs in annoyance. "As though I can't be trusted to make decisions for myself. It went fine. We enjoyed the work, as challenging as it was."

"And how are things with John?"

"Already trying to fish out the reason why I'm here?"

"Well, you have not exactly been very forthcoming about your reasons before, so I thought I'd give you a nudge. Assuming, of course, that this is relationship-related. That is where we left off, didn't we?"

She's right. During their last session nearly two years ago he hadn't felt that there was much more to discuss relating to Alice, and after regular visits Sherlock felt reasonably comfortable sharing other things with the psychiatrist as long as Joanna Pichler didn't try to wrench control of their sessions away from him. The last thing they had discussed was relationship communication, sticking to a general level; she seems to be quick to sense when Sherlock becomes uneasy about discussing himself. Theirs is a precarious dance: parry, pivot, one step forward, two steps to the side.

 _Do normal people just walk in here and spill everything, just like that? Astonishing._ "John and I are fine. More than fine, in fact." He drums his right patellar tendon with his fingers.

"Well, I'm glad. You have both worked very hard to achieve that."

Sherlock nearly snaps at her to cut the empty praise. How is he supposed to benefit from being here if he can neither define his problem or verbalise it?

"You seem frustrated and impatient today, even a bit anxious." She puts away her pen and pad, presumably to signal that Sherlock has her full attention and interest.

He's suddenly too restless to stay seated. Springing to his feet, he tries to stamp down on the bitterness flooding his thoughts, because it will make him think this is all pointless, that if talking helped him be less himself, it would have happened years ago.

He remembers all those therapy lessons as a child. _Patterns. Scripts. Mannerisms. When you hear this phrase, this is what you must say_. _Five minutes more_. _Hands on the table, young man._

He manages to force himself to stride to the window instead of marching out. Doctor Pichler's diploma from the University of Salzburg hangs beside it on the wall.

 _Pointless._ _Dull_.

He pivots on his heel and glares at her. "Why would anyone want to become a psychiatrist? Doesn't it ever stretch your patience to the limit when people come here wasting your time, refusing to tell you what's wrong?"

Doctor Pichler reaches for the half-full glass of water on her desk and takes a sip. "You're projecting."

His eyes are now blazing with anger. "Projecting _what_? I'm simply expressing the frustration you were so interested in not a minute ago."

"You're turning your anger and frustration at either yourself or something else towards me. You want to tell me what's wrong, and doing so is very hard, so you need an outlet for the anger that produces."

It shouldn't feel good to simply have this sudden rage that has taken over acknowledged. It doesn't erase it, but it makes him feel… seen. Real. _Respected_.

"I don't _want_ to tell you anything, no, because this is highly uncomfortable, and I don't even know what the issue is. If I knew, I wouldn't be here!"

"It's my job to help you find it out. It's alright for it to not be very precisely defined at this point."

He sits back down on the sofa.

"Let's start with some basics. When did you decide to book an appointment?" she asks.

"You know that already. Two days ago. John called you. But, he raised the subject before. With me, I mean," he rambles and cringes at himself. _Keep it together!_

"Can you explain the reason for that?"

"John brought it to my attention after Christmas that coming here might be beneficial."

"But you didn't think it necessary then?"

"No. I doubted whether it would be of any use."

"What changed?"

 _Here it is, then_. The moment when he's asked to say it out loud, but he is not going to relent. Two days ago, when John asked about booking an appointment, he had said: _'you do it_ '. John had disappeared into the kitchen, then fifteen minutes later simply informed him that Doctor Pichler was willing to see him today, even though it is a Sunday. _I should have sorted this out myself_.

He exhales. "John must have told you what happened. I can't talk about that, now." John is clever enough to have made the right diagnosis, or at least Sherlock hopes so.

 _Meltdown_. The very word tastes foul and mocks him.

"What happened at Christmas?"

He leans against the backrest, sighs, lets his head roll back. It seems that John has been quite the blabbermouth. "Are we talking about Sussex or what happened right before?"

"John explained that you left your family Christmas celebrations in Sussex early due to a conflict with your mother."

"Christmas was the same as always, and that's the problem."

"Alright. Tell me more."

"It never bothered me before the way it did this time. Before, I could always shrug it off. Retreat. Ignore. Now, I couldn't just let it go."

"Let what go?"

"What everyone was saying. The way they behave."

"Does this include John?"

"No. Yes. It's… complicated; it's my mother in particular. When we spend Christmas at home—at my parents' cottage, I mean—John slips into it all as though he'd always been there. I've never fit in. I've never… it's like I'm some stray who they allowed to stay against their better judgement."

Doctor Pichler's smile is soft, understanding. "I think they key word here is _home_. Parents, siblings, and partners have a unique way of getting under our skin because they know us so well; they can push our buttons even when they don't intend to. It's not just you—most adults experience this to some extent, I think. It depends on how much engagement their parents have had with them in their adult lives, how well they know their children as autonomous persons."

This makes Sherlock pause. His mother certainly has never seen him as an autonomous person and never will. Father might think differently, but he goes along with whatever she thinks. Mycroft… _dull_.

It suddenly seems so clear: their mother is simply not interested in Sherlock as an adult. She'd much rather just torture him in the presence of others by sharing embarrassing stories from his childhood, by treating him like a special needs child. _Why? Shouldn't she be glad to be rid of that burden by now?_

"Christmas did not go well this year, then. Was there an argument?" she presses.

"Yes. But it's not just that. I find myself confounded by my own reaction to something that happened just before Christmas—an event that just made everything worse when we went to Sussex. It's still affecting me, somehow, in addition to what happened _at_ Christmas, and I'm experiencing… _things_ which have not happened in years."

"Go on."

"I had my wallet stolen on the 23rd of December. And my phone, walking to the Tube from a hotel. Some youths approached, expressed threats featuring a knife."

"Sounds frightening."

Sherlock had just been about to add some details to the narrative, but her choice of words makes him grind to a halt. He hadn't quite thought of it that way. Objectively, yes, being threatened with a knife should be frightening, but it doesn't explain why he can't shake the remnants of the way he'd felt at that moment, and why that is making him remember things he had managed to shove out, lock away, ignore, delete. It doesn't explain why he's remembering them _now_ , why he's being yanked back years and years into feeling as though he is once again five years old, nine years old, thirteen years old, nineteen years old. He has worked hard to build himself a suit of armour, but now it has been lanced through and things are bleeding out. He wants to patch that hole and move on, and he worries that being here, talking to Joanna Pichler could instead just rip that hole bigger.

"Nothing that doesn't happen a hundred times over in London every day," he dismisses. "There's been a lot of stress, lately. Things should calm down, now, that Christmas is over," he announces, proud of the calmness he manages to summon into his voice.

"You said you were confused by your own reaction to this incident. Could you elaborate on that?"

Anger spills over again, as though Sherlock's feelings are a ship keeling in a storm, violently being thrown from one side to another. "It didn't happen because of who I am. That's not how it went. I didn't talk to them, I didn't _do anything_ to make them target me; it was entirely random."

He's being truthful, but he fears that the way he's _reacting_ does have something to do with the way he is. That he's… regressing, somehow. That's not even possible. _Ludicrous_. Then again, after years of being as fine as he could ever be, Friday happened. The halo may have nudged him in the direction of a meltdown a few times, but several times he managed to stay in control. But, two days ago… _If I'm so damned well-adjusted, why are these things coming back?_

And, there are also the panic attacks. He hasn't had one since his teens, and he can easily tell the difference between them and the meltdown. The one on the heath in the dark had been a bad one, and during the past few weeks, he's had several near misses, including one the day they returned to work. He couldn't bring himself to walk alone to the parking garage at King's to wait for John there instead of standing in the rain near the main entrance.

He can't afford to be like this. He has things to do, things to be. _I don't have time for this._ Nothing special had happened on Friday but somehow, he'd ended up a quivering mess. What if things continue spilling out, what if his control fails, and they all see past his carefully constructed front, see him now the way the other children had seen his worst moments when he was at school and overwhelmed and scared and alone? That would make his mother _right_ , that he is still just that, no matter what it says on the diplomas he has acquired.

_I can't be like this. Not now._

"Upsetting events make us remember things, because our minds find patterns, similarities."

"I didn't report it. The…incident. Everyone else thought I should, but I didn't want to answer all the questions about why I didn't fight back, why I couldn't describe the culprits. They thought I was being irrational for not going to the police but I just… I didn't want to talk about it."

"Victims of all manner of crimes often try to find fault in themselves in order to find a reason why it happened to them. It's quite common."

"I'm hardly a victim."

"How so?"

"I… I'm just… _not_."

"Is there something about the word that bothers you? You were mugged, were you not? Threatened with violence and relieved of your possessions? Would that not fulfil the legal definition of a crime?"

He doesn't have an answer. _Maybe._ "I've been through worse. It's ridiculous to still be affected by it."

"Men and women both can lose their sense of personal safety after such an incident. It's perfectly normal for it to return very gradually. A crime like that is as unpredictable as it is mindless and personal, unfair as it is devastating. It doesn't say anything bad about you that you would still be unsettled by it. Have you talked to John about this?"

Sherlock is suddenly reminded of his parents' assumptions that John is always there to cushion his way, and their berating of John that he'd let Sherlock wander around town on his own. "He's not my _minder_."

"You didn't answer the question."

"I've not told him everything, no."

"Is it because you feel embarrassed?"

"I fell, or…was pushed into a wall, banged up my nose and face. Useless. John would have fought them off. He wouldn't have… frozen."

 _There._ He's said it. And saying it didn't help. He rises to his feet. "This is pointless––"

"What has this made you remember?" Doctor Pichler's words are slightly hurried, but she does not rise from her chair to block his departure.

He stops to stand between the desk and a large banana plant, suspended in apprehension and frustration.

Calmly, she continues, "A part of blaming oneself is borne out of a sense of inadequacy. The individual loses control, feels vulnerable, alone, and confused; the sense of self becomes invalidated. If there have been prior instances when you have had such a profoundly crushing emotional experience, it is quite logical that those memories could become intrusive in the aftermath. It made you question whether the hardships you've endured, the work you've put in was worth it, if those close to you can't see it or respect it. Quite logical," she assures him.

Sherlock sits back down because he has a nagging sense that she's on to something. He may not like the worms that might crawl out of this particular can but listening may be his best chance of fixing it.

"In many instances of crime and bullying, physical and emotional paralyses occur, and the victim is unable to make rational decisions such as reporting the incident to the police or obtaining medical attention. Particularly attacks of a sexual nature can leave the victim feeling very apprehensive of their own role, questioning whether anyone will believe they didn't want it to happen if in hindsight they suspect they could have resisted harder. There are many ways humans can react in a crisis, and none of them are wrong or abnormal, really. I'm sorry to see you have had such a difficult experience, and that your confidence has suffered as a result."

He scoffs. "Would have been easier if I didn't have to listen to all the nagging about it in Sussex." It's easier to hold on to the anger than to accept her condolences. Somehow, whenever the psychiatrist suggests some emotion that he might be experiencing he feels threatened, as if those words could prick through and hurt him if he acknowledges them. For a long time, he'd believed that being alone protected him from such problems. It had been John who had proved to him that taking the risk of opening up to someone could reap astounding rewards, but he doubts doing so will ever be easy for him. At least John keeps insisting it's hardly easy for him, either.

"How did John and the other members of your family react to the news that you had been mugged?"

"John was very practical, once I assured him I was fine."

"Were you?" Joanna asks sharply.

"Define alright," he counters.

"In this context, I'd say 'alright' means that there is a return to a sense of calm, mental equilibrium, and ability to function normally in one's social and physical environment."

He had been none of those things in Sussex. "Possibly not _entirely_. The morning after it happened escalated to John becoming cross with me for not packing in time and not immediately cancelling my credit cards."

"What about your parents and your brother?"

"Mycroft went ahead and assumed that I had, quote, ' _pissed off a patient again'_." Father did not address the incident, whereas my mother wouldn't even let me in the house before she had made a huge fuss about it. She thinks it's the result of my inadequate skills in keeping myself safe and assessing risk. The incident let everyone draw the worst possible conclusions about what had happened to me, without even bothering to find out the facts."

"So, instead of support and understanding, you received criticism from your family for your reaction and your role in the events unfolding as they did."

Sherlock fingers the edge of his jacket sleeve. "An adequate summary, yes."

"Was that what made Christmas such a bad experience?"

"It just set the tone. Nothing new under the sun." He sighs. "For my mother, Christmas—especially after John has come along—has become an exercise in stripping me of all the adulthood and autonomy I have ever achieved. When she looks at me, she refuses to see anything but the fact that I'm…autistic."

He bites the inside of his lip, embarrassed at the slight pause before the word. How can he demand that others deal with the subject matter easily and naturally, if he can't do so? Mummy floods all conversations with his deficiencies. Why would it help to talk about them _more_ , even if it is with Doctor Pichler?

The psychiatrist shifts in her chair. "Sherlock, do you remember when I told you I needed to know certain things about you in order to make myself available as someone you could consult?"

He knows she is picking her words carefully, because of a rule he had enforced: this is _not_ therapy. She is _not_ his psychiatrist, because he doesn't need that sort of thing. He will _not_ accept needing such a thing. If he doesn't hold on to that control, what will be left but chaos and helplessness? He anticipates he'd feel just as he did at child, being left alone with all those other therapists in their offices, forced to interact with them.

"It seems to me that the subject matters we are circling here are of a nature difficult and emotional to deal with and discuss. I want you to feel safe in doing so, but I can't do that unless I can provide you with a therapeutic framework to fall back on. I can sense your hesitation, and I understand why you have tried to approach this the way you have, by wanting to hold the reins. But, I can't help you get to the bottom of this if you don't share those reins with me. I think there is little to lose and everything to gain by exploring this. Will you let me help you, the way I am trained to do?"

Sherlock is silent.

"This is a safe space. Locking the door and forcing you to relive your worst experiences or compelling you to change or to pretend you are something you're not is not the way I work. I hope you know all this by now. If there is ever a thing you feel very reluctant to discuss, you can tell me, and we will postpone it or find another angle. You have control over what you say, but I need to be able to steer us in the right direction."

His mouth is dry. "I suppose…" he starts, then swallows. "We could try. What happened two days ago is…it was…it cannot happen again."

"I can't promise you it never will, Sherlock, but when we find out what it was that tipped you over the edge, we can build a strategy to help you vent the stress before it gets too much."

He smooths down the surface of a decorative pillow covered with a dark blue mohair fabric. The feel of it under his fingers is calming.

"I would like to set up a series of appointments, a number on which we both agree. I would like us to agree on a number regardless of how far we get within those appointments because, if we give you the option of having to book every appointment separately, I suspect you'd be tempted to stop doing so, to stop coming to see me when things get more difficult. That's human nature, not just your characteristic. We avoid things that hurt to protect ourselves."

The psychiatrist pauses. "Judging by what you have just told me, I think we are dealing with things that have been brewing for a very long time. It's time to lance a few boils."

She's right, and he knows it, but doesn't want to admit it. "Why are they coming back? The… I mean, what happened two days ago. Why now?"

"I can't say for sure at this point. You shouldn't worry too much about it: at this point, we have no reason to assume that it was anything but an isolated incident. You've not been through a meltdown in years, have you?"

"No. The last time was during specialty training."

It had been during his time at the National, after he lost his mentor. The way his death exposed him to the bullying of the other trainees and even seniors had stretched his mental reserves to a breaking point. He had a meltdown after being on call, and it was such a shock to his system that he relapsed into using cocaine.

"Considering what you have told me today and what John said on the phone, I can confirm that your stress levels must have been through the roof lately, and while some of the contributing factors are new, some might be very old. By exploring those factors, we can track why this happened, and to avoid ending up in such a situation in the future."

Sherlock digs out his phone and opens the calendar application.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


When he closes the front door to their flat behind him, he feels drained. They haven't been living at Baker Street long enough for the slightly musty smell of the long-unused space to become familiar, and he always experiences a brief sense of alienness when coming in here.

  _Home_ , he thinks. _What does that mean, exactly?_

It's not a place. If that were the case, then he wouldn't use that term about any other place than his childhood one. Does he feel _at home_ in Sussex, now? Hardly. Once, he did, because it was all he had.

Before Brompton, he'd rented other flats. There was the one on Montague Street with Victor, but it was just a place to crash, an in-between, a limbo en route to other things. Brompton was different because John had moved in with him, and it had become a place where they were together. It's a jolting realisation that Malosa had felt more like home than Montague Street or any of the places where he had lived alone.

 _John_. John is the difference. _If home can be created through the people one chooses, are those people equally or more important than blood relations? If the latter are no good, is it possible to choose a new family? To build a new circle of people who exert a positive effect on one's existence instead of draining the life out of it?_

Mycroft would lecture him on a son's duty, on the importance of family and tradition and continuity and settling down. Yet, he can’t preach; he's still single. Sherlock would never have thought he'd be the one to marry first. He never thought he'd marry, period.

But… is the assumption that he's relationship-incapable yet another notion fed to him by well-meaning idiots who he has wasted years listening to? What if, instead of the dimwits his mother had unleashed upon him, he'd had a therapist like Joanna Pichler when he was young? Would she have helped him pick his way through things for which Mummy assumed he didn't have the skills or the perspective, and call her assumptions out as nonsense? The assumption that he'll never amount to much is just _wrong_.

His angers sparks back into life but splutters a bit since he's too tired to surrender to its consuming fire; talking to Pichler was draining in a way he's only becoming aware of afterwards.

John is in his usual chair, which he's turned to face the TV. He's watching rugby. There's a half-eaten turkey, bacon & pickle sandwich on the table. He seems to have been too tired to cook so he must have stopped by at a deli nearby on his way home.

"Hi," John says with a smile Sherlock recognises as fond and relaxed, then focuses on the game again.

Sherlock circles behind the chair, by-passing the box of books they have not yet unpacked. He is gripped by a sudden and strange impulse to wrap his arms around John's shoulders and breathe into his short, coarse hair. John turns his head and meets him halfway for a reassuring, lazy kiss, then pats Sherlock's hand which is now resting on John's bicep.

Sherlock withdraws, stretches his back straight. John peels his eyes off the screen again and gives him a contented smile.

 _I did that_ , Sherlock thinks in awe. _I chose him, and he chose me, and I can do that to him_. He's never been a touchy-feely person, always shunned hugs and kisses even from family members. It always felt wrong, hard to interpret, too tight or too light, confusing and irritating, but John does all these things just right. This is what home is for Sherlock—being with John. He realises he feels a bit better than he has for weeks but he'd loathe to credit the improvement to just one talk with Doctor Pichler. Maybe time is doing its job in diluting his ire.

But, time doesn't seem to be helping with deciding what to do about everything that's been driving him up the wall.

He is heading for the kitchen when his phone vibrates. Putting the kettle on, he checks it.

 _'You can't hide forever, brother_ ', reads Mycroft's text message. _'Answer your phone. Just apologise and then forget about it; keep the family peace_.'

He puts the phone on the kitchen table. He's not going to answer the text, because he's not going to just bow down and let this go. Mycroft's insinuation that _Sherlock_ is the greatest threat to family peace, not their mother, slices open whatever stitches he had managed mentally to plaster across his memories of Christmas.

He sighs and fills the kettle to get some hot water to refresh the tea pot on the kitchen table. While waiting for the kettle to whistle, he opens the cupboard and rummages about for the pack of ginger nuts he knows John had added to their last Ocado order. He doesn't like them much but Sherlock does, so there is little fear that they'd have been eaten already.

Yet another memory appears, uninvited. His parents came to visit two months after he had moved to Cambridge for uni. Mother had confiscated all the food he had in his room, convinced that it would force him to put up with the horrid offerings of the King's College eateries. He _had_ been eating, using the dorm's shared kitchen to prepare things he tolerated, but she wouldn't listen to a word he said, and the frustration eventually boiled over into a shouting match during which he threw a packet of chocolate biscuits at the wall.

 _It's time I got a word in_ , he decides.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Hark, The Herald Angels Sing"


	14. Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot and Never Brought to Mind?

 

"What's this?"

When Sherlock looks up from his crate, he sees that John is holding up a glass specimen case. "What do you think it is?"

John looks back down at the item in his hands. "It's odd; I can't imagine why some Victorian naturalist would put butterflies, beetles and a bat in the same case."

"It's not Victorian; it's mine. I made it during my taxidermy phase. I was fifteen and interested in understanding the anatomy of flight."

John cracks a smile. "Please tell me that didn't involve actually trying to fly, using some contraption you built."

"Why don't you want me to tell you about that? Why research such a thing and not try to apply it in practice?"

"How did it end?"

"With a broken collarbone. I did glide for about five meters before the crash landing. My design was not that dissimilar to modern wingsuits, but I didn't quite have the requisite height or optimal materials at my disposal."

John grins, shaking his head. "Where do you want me to put this?"

Sherlock points to the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace. "Maybe over there?"

The two of them have been unpacking five crates full of stuff that Violet had insisted they take with them when they left on Boxing Day morning: ' _Now that Mycroft is making his own way back, tomorrow, you'll have room._ _It's been cluttering our garage loft for years. You can decide if anything is worth keeping and donate or chuck out the rest.'_  Her tone had been snippy when she gave these instructions to John in the front garden; she was still angry about them leaving early.

John places the specimen box on the mantelpiece under the mirror. "How about here? Pride of place, well deserved."

"Why?"

"Because it's _you._ People probably told you off, told you that it couldn't be done. But, you investigated and tried anyway. A testament to your courage."

"That's not what they said at the time. My mother worried about infectious diseases with anything I taxidermied and Mycroft just told me such things were, I quote, 'icky'."

John laughs. "I can imagine. What did they know? Wrapping you up in cotton wool wouldn't have worked. I think it's great that we've got this stuff. Better than any photo album."

Sherlock realises that John has a point, and it is one his husband may be making deliberately by mentioning the albums. On the drive back, Sherlock had been complaining about everything and everyone, and announced wanting to burn those damned albums since all they are good for is fuel for his mother's insulting idiocy. He had agreed to take the crates because he was tired of his family misappropriating his childhood. There are things wrapped up in newspapers here that will remind him of the good times, the pleasures he'd taken in solitary activities which were not assigned by Mummy with the purpose of turning him into a carbon copy of _normal_ children. All the photos she is so fond of were taken by other people, not him. They showed what they wanted him to be like, not what he was. What he _is_.

A little self-consciously, Sherlock asks, "Are you sure you don't mind? You didn't seem to like my stuff being everywhere in the old flat. Won't this just make it even more cluttered here?"

John shakes his head. "No way. This place of Martha's couldn't be more different from the Brompton flat. That was so modern and minimalist that anything out in the open made it look cluttered. Here, the aesthetic is so eclectic that it can just absorb anything. I feel at home here, and I want you to as well. Having things around that have meaning to you is important."

 _Home_. There it is again, that word. The contrast between this and the cottage on Snowdrop Lane could not be starker. There, Sherlock could not escape the way they thought of him. Here, he and John have the chance to make the place their own, together. They had considered having the worn floors and the wallpaper redone, but Sherlock doubts they'll ever get around to it. The colours and textures resemble the things in what used to be John's study/guest bedroom in Brompton, and Sherlock has discovered he enjoys such warm, ageless things, too. Maybe some of his modernist interior phase had been a bit like their car: something he assumed was expected of a high-calibre, up-and-coming London neurosurgeon.

That said, he has always had trouble adjusting quickly to new places. They'd brought their two chairs and the sofa, but everything else in the flat is a mixture of furniture that Martha had inherited over the years. John must instinctively know that Sherlock will start to relax more if he is surrounded by familiar objects, so has pushed him into opening the crates.

Sherlock returns his attention to wrestling tissue paper off Billy, then walks over to the mantel and places it to the left of the newly installed specimen case.

"Oh, wow—a skull. That's cool. Where'd you get that?"

"This is what's left of my study group's cadaver. I stole it before they cremated the body. Only fair; a homeless man who died of liver cancer, he lives on to remind me of my medical school hours spent in dissection. At times, I used to think he was my only friend there." The man had donated his body to the medical school so that students would learn from him, with the belief that those allowed to do so were worthy of his gift. Sherlock had liked that idea. The man's deathly, silent approval of him had felt good when the other students began to realise he could and would never fit in and the inevitable negative attention towards him began to gather.

He can remember the precise day. They had their first exam, focusing on upper limb anatomy. All the other students were jovially comparing how badly they were going to do, how little they knew. It had been only afterwards that Sherlock had begun to suspect that such talk was an attempt to create camaraderie, not a true reflection of their efforts for the examination. When asked, he had replied that he had studied all the material thoroughly and expected full marks.

' _Well, good on you, then_ ,' one of the other male students, a most uncultured one by the name Mark Lindley, had replied in an odd tone. A week later, as Sherlock was working on the spinal column, he heard the boy joking to the other students: _'I bet Holmes is here because he's a serial killer. Must be a family tradition!_ ' As far as Sherlock knows, the nineteenth century American H. H. Holmes, real birth name Herman Webster Mudgett, has nothing to do with his family, and informing Lindley of this at lunch that day only brought on more ridicule.

Few other students showed much respect to the man who had donated his body so that they could learn its secrets. At Christmastime, Lindley received a reprimand from the Dean for having showed Christmas baubles into the then-empty eye sockets.

John derails Sherlock's train of thought: "That… must have taken some doing, getting a whole head reduced down to the bones."

Sherlock smirks. "I had help: I buried it on Hampstead Heath, really deep, and then recovered it a year later. It is amazing what ants, bacteria and decomposition will do to a body. A useful _memento mori_." He sounds blasé about it now but admittedly, he had been terribly nervous to do the deed; being caught burying a decapitated head could have been a bit not good if someone saw him and called the police. Still, he honours Billy every day for his gift to medical science.

They keep unwrapping, and the pile of crumpled newspaper grows. John keeps lifting things he uncovers up to show Sherlock who will shake his head or nod. The rejects go into black rubbish bin bags.

Sherlock stops at one point to admire a painting that had been carefully wrapped up. It depicts a young man with distinctly sherlockian but more red-tinted curls left a bit longer than Sherlock ever wears them, a sharp look in his inquisitive eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. John looks over and asks, "Who's that in the picture?"

"Uncle Rudy. It was painted when he was twenty-one, by an artist he knew at Oxford. Mummy hated this."

"So why did you keep it?"

"I liked Uncle Rudy, or at least the idea of him. The family's black sheep; Mummy said that she adored him when she was a child; he was ten years older than her. But then something happened; she never told me the details, just said he went _rogue,_ which in her family was the kiss of death. Eventually he died in the south of France. Before I was born."

"How did you end up with it?"

"I found it in the attic when I was putting my stuff up there when I went to Cambridge. I liked the thought of someone—anyone—in our family not giving a damn what other people thought of him."

He is most tempted to hang it up now, just because it would _so_ annoy Mummy. That is, if she ever sets foot in this place. As far as Sherlock is concerned, _hopefully not_.

"Did you know your grandparents well?" John asks. "I don't remember you mentioning them much."

"No." The question makes Sherlock feel uncomfortable, but he finds it hard to explain to John why. Mycroft had spent holidays with his mother's parents, while he had been kept at home. It was as if Mummy had been ashamed of him, and the thought still hurts. _'They can't possibly cope with him, and he cannot afford that much time off from all the things he needs to be working on_ ,' Mummy had announced that one year when Father had suggested Sherlock might go, too. Sherlock had been in the next room; it was one of many conversations he had overheard between his parents regarding his upbringing, and they tended to upset him. He'd gone to Mycroft's room, sat down on his brother's neatly made bed to watch him pack. He knew his brother was excited about going, but politely refrained from enthusing about it in his presence. This, too, Sherlock had naturally realised long afterwards, after hearing Mycroft talking about it with Father. It may have been his first lesson in lies of omission.  

He puts the painting on the bookcase to the left of John's chair. It will be in Sherlock's eye line when he is seated in his own chair.  
   

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Later the next evening, a disembodied voice from the kitchen breaks into his reverie.

"Sherlock, do you know what day it is?"

He has to think about it but manages in the end: "Wednesday." He checks every evening and sets his alarm if the next day is to be a work day. Otherwise, he doesn't care, or make an effort to keep track. He was on call last night and operated for most of it, so in the morning, since most of their ORs are still in holiday shutdown, he and Lestrade agreed that he could go home for the day.

"No, I meant the _date_."

"What difference does that make?"

"It's the 31st of December."

"So?"

"New Year's Eve. I thought we should celebrate. I've put that champagne your brother gave me in the fridge for later and ordered in from a nearby Italian restaurant that Martha recommended. It's called Angelo's. Should be here in about twenty minutes."

"It's a waste of Dom Perignon to have me drink it."

"No, it's not. You once ranted at me about wine, said that ' _the value of wine is precisely what its consumers confer on it_ '. So, I can decide that it's most valuable if I get to have it with you."

Sherlock gives him a sideways glance. "That's not how it works."

Clearly not caring, John grins as he places two red wine glasses on the kitchen table. It appears he wants to drink something else than the champagne with the Italian.

Sherlock picks himself up off the sofa, goes to the kitchen and rummages around the cabinets John has arranged to find a regular glass for water. He'll have _either_ the champagne _or_ a red. No need to embarrass himself.

Just as he's closing the right cabinet, footsteps halt behind him and John slides his arms around his waist, crowding him against the kitchen counter. "And, if you're interested––" he whispers into the twirl of curls on Sherlock's neck, "––I thought we might welcome the new year with your cock in my mouth," he concludes mischievously, kissing Sherlock's neck with the tiniest bit of teeth. He's playing dirty, perfectly aware of the effect saying such things can have on his partner.

Sherlock manages to turn around, pushing the glass away from them on the counter. He wraps his arms around John's neck but instead of going for a kiss, he closes he eyes and rests his cheek against John's. "Maybe," he mutters, a shudder traveling down his spine as John's slight stubble scrapes where his chin meets his cheek.

They have already made love in the flat, in an excited frenzy of new homeowners when the bed had just been delivered and the movers had barely closed the door behind them. But, it's different now. Sherlock still doesn't feel quite settled in, and the events of the past few weeks have left him feeling out of sorts, exposed and _in-between_ , somehow. Between what things, he has no idea.

Maybe he _should_ have that red and the champagne, fall into bed with John with reckless abandon, and somehow survive the mortification the next morning. He feels both the effects and the after-effects of alcohol much worse than his husband—the next day, he can practically feel how empty his neurotransmitter reserves are. He loses initiative to do anything worthwhile, then gets disappointed in himself for wasting the day. There's also the fact that he shouldn't need liquid courage to deal with John. Then again, if he just evades, John will pick up on it and be disappointed. Sex with John is one of Sherlock's most favourite things in the world and realising that something has—even if just temporarily— lessened his interest in it, he gets angry. Mostly, it's towards himself for being so fickle, for being so weak, so easily distracted and inconsistent in his desire.

John is so… uncomplicated, when it comes to these matters. Easily aroused, consistently capable. And now, instead of continuing to press his groin against Sherlock and trailing more kisses down his neck, John is hugging him back tightly, in a stationary manner that appears rather chaste.

Eventually, John extricates. "Hungry?" he asks Sherlock hopefully.

 _Not really_. "Depends on what's on offer."

John steps back—he's been on tiptoe due to their height difference—and studies his expression. This alarms Sherlock; has he sounded unenthusiastic? Has he said the wrong thing? He hadn't even realised it's New year's Eve so John is bound to be easily disheartened if he doesn't appear grateful for the efforts his husband has made to celebrate.

_Expectations. More expectations. Never-ending expectations._

What Sherlock wants is a quiet night at home. What he _doesn't_ want is more of the prone-to-fail guesswork that fills his Christmas visits to Sussex, his workdays, his interactions with people who are not John.

The words slip out without permission. "Why do you, too, have to do this to me?"

John had been on his way to put the plates he's dug of a shelf out on the table. Now, he stops and turns to face Sherlock. "Do what?"

"Trap me in these ridiculous, indecipherable rituals like everyone else? What customs must I observe to be deemed worthy of the new year? Will it make you happier in this relationship? Is it proof you require of my dedication to it? Is it vitally important for your well-being, that we mark our acquiescence to the Gregorian calendar instead of, say, the Julian or the Thai solar calendar or the Islamic or the Hebrew or the Vikrama Samvat used in Northern India? Or the one the Deccan states––"

"Sherlock," John interrupts, "Draw a breath, will you."

_Calm down. Behave._

Sherlock grunts in frustration, then stomps down to the bathroom to fill the tub and sit on the toilet seat while doing so. The only thing he wants is a bath and that's what he's having, and sod whether it's somebody's idea of a proper New Year or not.

It's a pity the bathroom at 221B Baker Street is too small for a tub they would both fit in. Sherlock had greatly enjoyed their joint baths in Brompton, especially as a spot of foreplay. Now, they'll have to settle for joint showers in the separate cubicle when wanting to have a bit of that sort of fun.

He sighs, following a crack in a tile on the opposite wall with his gaze. He's not really angry at John, more at the entire universe, and himself.

At one point, he hears the doorbell; the food must have arrived. Before slipping into the water, he leaves the door unlocked. Predictably enough, John comes in just as the water is turning from almost-too-hot to just right and Sherlock has closed his eyes. He opens them again when he hears a strange, sharp sound from the rim of the tub.

John has put down a plate on it, but it doesn't contain savoury dinner food. Instead, there's cocoa powder, something white, and pieces of what looks like cake.

"What I wanted, what I'm trying to do here is for us to have a New Year's just the way _we_ like it," John explains, and to Sherlock's great relief he doesn't sound angry at all. "Violet calls the shots at Christmas but not now, not here," John adds softly. "So, dessert first?" he prompts. "Tiramisu. Never seen you order it, but since it's got coffee in it and you had second helpings at Andrew and Sonya's––"

Sherlock lifts his hands out of the water, shakes them drier and eagerly grabs the plate. 

 

 


	15. Breathes A Life of Gathering Gloom

At the start of their second session, Doctor Pichler tells Sherlock she has an empty slot after his. "If need be, we can continue for a second session back-to-back," she suggests.

Sherlock appreciates the idea even if the notion of a long appointment feels rather alarming. It should allow them to discuss things at his pace instead of her pushing him into revealing more than he's at this point comfortable with because the clock is ticking.

She prepares tea—he gets to choose and picks Darjeeling. They take their seats, steaming mugs in hand. Sherlock is glad to have something to hold, an object with which to preoccupy his hands. It doesn't matter how many times she tells him that he can stim if he needs to; after years and years of being told off from doing exactly that, a part of him has a very hard time accepting that it really is acceptable anywhere. He knows he could do it at home, too; John would understand, but the idea of his husband seeing something like that makes his skin crawl. So, he falls back on the forms most socially acceptable even in John's presence: twirling a pen, tapping his fingertips, jiggling his leg under a table.

"Any thoughts you'd like to share about our last meeting?" Doctor Pichler asks.

"It served its purpose." He doesn't want to dwell on how anxious and defensive he'd felt. Before…all _this_ , he'd developed a good, equal, functioning professional relationship with her, and he's not sure what it is she insists has to change for them to explore these new themes.

"How is it, coming back today?"

"I feel less comfortable being here than I did when we discussed Alice. Then again, I assume a certain degree of unease is true for most of your clients." He studiously avoids the word _patient_. He's not _ill_.

"To a varying degree, yes. The reasons for their unease also varies and helping me to understand yours would be beneficial."

"I assume most of your clients are driven here by some acute crisis or a mental health problem affecting their work or relationship or… Well, you get the idea. I find it hard not to question what I'm doing here—how to justify these appointments to myself. Still," he adds. The meltdown had been a wake-up call but going to a psychiatrist for help is laced with the unpleasant idea that there's something medically wrong with him. That this is how the world mostly defines things that live at his core: wrong, deficient, give it a diagnosis number, _fix it_ so that it's out of sight.

"Many physicians find it difficult to accept the role of someone who needs help, instead of being the one providing care."

Sherlock flicks a dismissive wrist towards nothing in particular. "It's not that." He puts down the mug of tea on a side table, then regrets doing so because it leaves his hands unoccupied. He splays his fingers, arranges his palms on his knees.

The position must look stiff and theatrical, but Doctor Pichler pays it no mind. "Let me share my impressions from our last session. After being absent for some time, you came to see me again, clearly frustrated and distressed—the word anxious should not be an exaggeration. You have recently experienced things which have stretched your emotional reserves, things that would have stressed anyone severely. I do not think you would have returned if you didn't feel a pressing need for my opinion, and that is reason enough for our meeting today."

She's right. He's here because he fears that his control over his faculties is slipping in a way that could compromise his professional reputation.

"You shouldn't think you are taking away time with me from someone else, Sherlock. What you have done is _acquire it for_ _you_."

"It's just… A paradox would be a good word. I find that in many respects, I… manage, that I have learned things, that I've made something of my life, that I've succeeded in something I had never believed possible—namely, a long-term relationship. Yet, when it comes to certain things, certain people, it's as though the good things of the last ten years never happened. I find myself instantly jerked back into being a ten-year-old at the mercy of the ill-intentioned whims of peers and ill-informed opinions of adults. And, I'm even frustrated at my inability to discuss things that might help resolve what's going on. I hate that I can't be rational, that I'm suddenly reacting to things I've sidestepped with success for years."

"The fact that you call it sidestepping is very telling. The past can be an asset or a hindrance, and when it suddenly becomes the latter, it's not an uncommon moment for people to seek professional counselling. You are not alone in not being able to sift through what it is you're feeling, and why. Neurotypical individuals can also find that much too difficult to manage on their own." Her mouth tightens thoughtfully. "In fact, when you are not excessively anxious, I find you quite good at expressing your feelings."

Sherlock is surprised by this assessment. It's not something on which anyone has even commended him. Certainly not John.

She continues. "That bodes well for our joint work. Patients with no skills of self-reflection, ones with little self-awareness, don't benefit from a therapeutic approach." A smile soon plays at the edge of her lips. "You are also quite good at concealing your reactions to certain things, but not as good to others—such as your dislike of certain words and concepts just now."

She doesn't have to say them out loud again to confirm what they are: _patient, therapy_.

"You already know I'm opposed to seeing myself as… _that_."

"This may not seem that relevant to your most pressing issues, but I'd like to hear more about your experiences as a child regarding any and all therapeutic approaches you experienced."

"I can't say the topic is very enticing."

"Then, we can discuss it on a more general level. The reason I think this is important is that those past experiences are likely to lie behind your difficulties in addressing things pertaining to your being on the Spectrum."

"I will freely admit that past experiences, both in therapy and outside of it, are the reason I avoid talking about it whenever I can."

"As you are probably aware, many schools of thinking have existed when it comes to therapy for individuals on the Spectrum, and some of the therapeutic approaches to ASD have been as odd as they have been harmful. Many of my patients above the age of twenty-five have been subjected to techniques now viewed as outdated."

"Outdated as they may be, unless people have updated their views and knowledge, that's the era they're still living in." One individual in particular comes to Sherlock's mind.

"You're right. And, curiously, as late as in 2007, a strange form of therapy widespread in France caused an outcry when the Lancet reported on it. The therapy was called packing, and it involved wrapping autistic children in wet, refrigerated sheets for up to an hour. This could be continued for months or even years, depending on the case. So, not all therapy relating to ASD has arrived in the 21st century just yet."

Sherlock remembers the Lancet article. "Plenty of nonsense is still being used by misguided therapists and desperate parents to try to alleviate the symptoms of autism or even 'cure it'. What is your point?"

"Parents who turn to such therapies rarely do so with a punitive purpose or out of malice. They are scared, desperate and confused by all the conflicting information they may be getting from healthcare professionals, the internet, their social circles and peer support groups."

Is she _apologising_ for such stupidity? "Sometimes parents decide what they want to believe and stick to that, never mind any evidence to the contrary. Should I be grateful that things are no longer as bad as they were before the 1960s when autistic patients were institutionalised for life? Should I _count my blessings_?" Though he aims for a dispassionate, academic tone, it all comes out heavily laced with bitterness. He's had more than enough pain from people pushing their definitions down his throat.

Had he been born even just twenty or thirty years earlier, Sherlock doubts he'd have been able to become a doctor. Most likely he would have been sent to a special school with children who had much more severe developmental and psychiatric problems. The best-case scenario in the 1980s was to have spent his school years the way he did: thrown into the shark tank and told to learn how to cope on his own. He wouldn't have managed even as half as well without the therapists his parents made him go to, but he has still fumbled his way through with considerable difficulty. _For what purpose?_

Judging by all the differences in brain function and biochemistry found between neurotypical and ASD individuals, it doesn't seem likely that some simplistic chemical intervention—let alone wet sheets—could reverse the effects of profound irregularities in brain development. There are also many who question whether such a reverse is even desirable or warranted. That implies more tolerance of diversity today that wasn't there when he was growing up.

Doctor Pichler is nodding. "I don't underestimate how frustrating it must be for you as an adult to look back and see how much has improved. Life is a bit easier now for the current children on the Spectrum, provided parents and medical professionals keep up to date." The psychiatrist continues. "There are other therapy methods which are less ludicrous, but which were used for decades, and later on questioned regarding whether they were harmful or useful. Some of them were effective in conditioning children to produce certain behaviours from associated social cues, but they were not very good at teaching them to adapt to social interaction. And, they were even worse at building self-confidence."

"Fake it till you make it," Sherlock summarises. "You're talking about ABA, I presume."

"Yes. Applied behavioural analysis dominated treatment for autism for decades but is now seriously questioned. There are many schools of thinking inside the method, but in years past, too many therapists used aggressive conditioning methods to produce the desired behaviours, favouring compliance over understanding a child's individual needs and cultivating their strengths. According to studies later done on the method, it did not significantly improve cognitive outcome, expressive language, receptive language, or adaptive behaviour. Do you think that the ABA approach was taken in your case?"

"I can't be sure what I had, but it did all happen in the eighties, and from what I’ve read, the descriptions seem to fit." He had to attend several therapy appointments mid-schooldays which was embarrassing. And, he always had to catch up on the school lessons he missed afterwards. His mother didn't think it was as important to keep up with them as it was to learn how to get along with other people. There were more sessions in the evenings, and the relentless schooling his mother kept up between them.

Pichler nods. "Autism advocacy activists have described quite appalling experiences connected to ABA, and a 2017 study even suggested it may cause PTSD, especially if there's been a major focus on eradicating behaviours such as stimming, on forcing eye contact, and breaking routines which make an individual feel safe. Some of the behaviours which ABA therapists used to be keen to eliminate have been later on identified as coping mechanisms—even as attempts to communicate when verbal communication fails. Do you feel comfortable stimming in the presence of others?"

"Of course not."

"Were you told not to do it?"

"It was one of the things that most embarrassed my mother."

"Does your discomfort extend to when you are in John's presence?"

He sighs. "Yes. He is prone to interpreting stimming simply as a symptom of anxiety and tries to eradicate the need for it by dealing more with the cause. I doubt he understands how often I need it and that it doesn't require a crisis. If I have to stim in his presence, I try to find ways to do which won't look…unusual." Plenty of people swing their legs, play with a pen, tap the table at boring meetings. It's the same process, but their level of need for it is different to Sherlock's. Thankfully, there are things he can use as surrogate sensory activities such as taking a bath or playing the violin. At work, it's sometimes very difficult to vent that impulse.

"I find stimming one of the best examples of how thinking has changed when it comes to ASD," Doctor Pichler says. "Until the nineties, most on the Spectrum were taught to think that their needs and difficulties were a character flaw, a weakness. I see this thinking all the time in my adult patients. The signal that they received from therapists and parents is that their communication problems and other autistic traits are a downright shameful problem that should be hidden and fixed, and that they have failed when that isn't happening. That is why, especially when it comes to relationship difficulties, many adults on the Spectrum feel frustrated, quite hopeless even, because they question their capacity to play the role of a partner, to blend into the neurotypical society, to communicate."

"Not all that negativity is ableist conjecture. I do not possess certain skills which would clearly be beneficial in a relationship."

"Some neurotypical individuals suffer from a severe lack of such skills, too."

"I don't find that comforting."

"Both parties of a relationship are responsible for finding compromises, for learning to cope with the eccentricities of the individual they have chosen to share their life with. Acquiring knowledge about ASD and adopting certain coping skills is important for _both_ parties in a relationship where one is neuroatypical and the other is not. One thing that often seems to help immensely in resolving conflicts is educating the neurotypical partner about how much energy it takes for the ASD individual to suppress certain traits and to force themselves to tolerate things they find difficult."

"And to lower the bar of their expectations."

"Not necessarily; that's what an ableist might think. The aim should be to better understand and help the ASD partner to cope."

"John has made an effort; he's learned a lot."

"Yes, he has."

"Why can he do it, but not my family? If I forget to put the milk back in the fridge, he's not instantly declaring it's because I'm autistic."

John probably _does_ blame some things on that. _Maybe lots of things?_  

"The insidious part of ableism is that the good intentions of educators, parents and healthcare professionals can become dysfunctional when the help they are trying to provide to a child they see as disabled focuses on what they see as their disability to the exclusion of all else. From an early age, many people with disabilities encounter the view that disability is negative and tragic and that 'overcoming' it is the only valued result. Neuroatypicality fell into that same category for a lot of parents and medical professionals."

"Still does. Many advocacy groups still fund efforts to find a cure."

Doctor Pichler sips from a bottle of water on her desk. "The reason I'm raising the subject of how much things have changed is because I think that even if you are part of the generation of individuals towards whom some of these old attitudes and assumptions were directed, there's a lot of room for positive change."

"So, once again, _I_ am the one who needs to change?" Sherlock assumes. He scoffs, "Why am I not surprised?" He lets his head roll back with a sigh.

"You may have to become an _agent_ of change, yes. That's not the same as forcing yourself to fit other people's expectations when those expectations are harmful. Without your help and your relationship to him being the catalyst, John would not have gone through the trouble of learning. The same principle can be applied to others. Yes, unfortunately it needs to be you who explains why it is important to _you_ for them to change. If what you are going through right now has to do with interpersonal relationships with your family, you cannot change those alone. It requires willingness from the other party, and they may not see much fault in how things currently are."

 _I need to show others that I need them to change?_ To Sherlock this sounds highly unrealistic. Yet, a part of him is getting curious because this is the very _opposite_ of what he has been told all his life: that he's the one who's defective and needs to be change to avoid being different.

Still, the big picture of the world will remain the same, regardless of what one person does or says. He'll never belong in the world, because it's not designed for the likes of him. Is there any point in even trying to change the opinions of others? There are countless numbers of Violet Holmeses in the world.

The words are out of his mouth before he manages to add any politeness to them: "That notion is naive, trying to get people to change behaviour they've exhibited for decades. Especially if they don't _want_ to change. What is the bloody point of sitting here, if I still end up behaving _exactly_ like they assume because of the way they treat me?!"

He can so vividly recall the moment in the dark heath and what had happened last Friday because those incidents had merely been slightly altered replays of all the moments in his life when the world had become overwhelming and he'd lost control of himself. Now, thanks to the meltdown, he may have even ruined his image in John's eyes. "How the hell do I convince John the way I am doesn't affect me too much when he's now walked in on me when–– when I––" Shame heats up his cheeks.

"He loves you, Sherlock. He loves you when you are being your professional, skilled self at work, but he loves you equally when you are not alright. When he contacted me to reserve our appointment last week he was deeply worried, but not shocked or repelled. We often project our own negative feelings on others, assuming those emotions are mirrored there when they're not. When it comes to your ASD, you began to construct your relationship with John on trust and honesty—you told him right from the start, if I recall correctly?"

"I would not have informed him of it so early if it hadn't been professionally necessary. We weren't in a relationship, then, nor was I seeking one. I assumed he would keep my confidence as a colleague."

"My point is that you have taken initiative in educating John on your being on the Spectrum. You have set the parameters of his learning, and the result has been positive."

"And you think the same could be applied to other people?" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "My mother is the way she's always been, no matter what I say, and I feel so frustrated because all I do is fulfil her expectations of behaviour by lashing out. She's had over thirty years to dig herself into a trench of what she wants to believe." The pitch of his tone is rising; it seems he cannot yet discuss her without anger boiling over.

Doctor Pichler doesn't reply; she seems to be giving him time and space to say what he needs to.

"I'm not what she expected, and she couldn't change me to be the way she wanted. She doesn't want to know me, and I doubt she ever even liked me, not then, not now."

As he gets these last words out, Sherlock's eyes begin to feel odd, and his vision clouds. Fingertips applied to his lower lashes provide an explanation: tears are gathering there. He has never been able to predict what things bring on this reaction. He had not cried much as a child, let alone as an adult. There's no connection between how he feels and when he feels like… this would happen. Why do some things lance through his armour effectively enough to make his body betray him, yet others leave him mostly unaffected?

When it comes to the feelings of others, he finds them hard to predict, interpret and distressing to visit. When it comes to his own, it's often worse—to address them, he'd perhaps need names for them, but words have never been his friends. So, he fumbles around in the dark.

Is there any point expecting respect from others, if he cannot respect himself, if he cannot keep these things in check, if it takes so little for things to go back to being just the way they always were? Why can't he just _cope_ , couldn't he just ignore the bloody Brussel sprouts, couldn't he just practice until he knew the right words to utter at every occasion, couldn't he just ignore chafing labels on his clothes, tune out the noise on the Tube, couldn't he learn to read John—really _read_ him to know what is expected of him, couldn't he learn to drive his own damned car and stop wanting to stim?

Sherlock rises to his feet, snatches a tissue from a pile on the table between them, dabs his eyes and makes his way to the window. _I'm being ridiculous. Coming here is just stoking the fire_.

He should leave. Leave, and never return. But, the thought fills him with dread and a sense of finality. So, he stands stiffly before the window, helpless to decide what to do or believe. _Optimism was never my strong suit._

Doctor Pichler gives him a moment. She goes to sprinkle flaky food to the fish in the tank, gathers up their tea cups and refreshes them with a refill.

There's still plenty of time left in the double appointment. Sherlock imagines the ticking of the long hand of the clock on the wall reverberating in his bones, counting down to the end. If there are no answers to be found here, what hope is there for him? Everything feels off kilter, as though the curtain of his life has been ripped open and revealed the bad actor on the stage. At work, it no longer feels worth the effort to try to do all those things he has worked hard to learn so that he could communicate and get along with people, even if failing to do so may well sink the ship of his career. Things are slipping back to the way they were when he first arrived. He’s angry, disappointed, afraid, sceptical that it could ever be any better at King's than it had been at the National after Andreasen died.

At home, John knows something's wrong with him, but it's not fair that he may still expect Sherlock to have either the patience or the capability to defuse the proverbial bomb verbally.

 _I don't know what to do_.

Suddenly, he's more afraid of this appointment ending than he is about what old, bad things Pichler might try to get him to discuss. He has nothing to lose, because he's realising how little he had to start with. He sits back down.

"Alright?" she asks.

He nods tentatively. What does 'alright' even mean?  He's never been alright. Nobody has ever told him what it means.

"To summarise the experiences you have described: you feel that your mother dismisses your achievements and is selectively blind to the ways in which you have grown from an autistic child to an autonomous adult on the Spectrum. And, you feel that she makes things worse by sweeping aside your feelings, by not taking them seriously when you try to express them. And, you feel that other family members conform to her ideas."

Sherlock fixes his gaze down on the pillow he is kneading with his fingertips to drain his anxiety.

"I'm asking about your prior experiences as a child because seeing them in the context of the times during which they happened can be one thing that might help dissolve your current anger and frustration. I take it these feelings are not new, although you may not have been as acutely aware of them before?"

The question catches Sherlock by surprise. Certainly, the things he had thought just now have been issues he has brooded on many times, but at different stages in his life, the frustration has taken different forms. Most importantly, he has never really felt it was appropriate or allowed. In his teens, it had often led to fights with his mother, but teenage combined with ASD provided her with the perfect excuse to never listen, never take him seriously.

Now, he's an adult, and she doesn't get to make decisions for him anymore. For the first time, he feels he has a right to the anger. Like a man dealt a bad hand in a card game, being cross won't change a thing but it still feels insurmountable. He doesn't remember feeling like this before, this righteous, entitled rage towards all the expectations to which he has been subjected.

"The frustration's not new," he tells the psychiatrist. "I remember refusing to co-operate with plenty of the so-called professionals my parents took me to, especially in my teens, because I didn't understand why Mycroft or other children weren't constantly being dragged to doctors and therapists." He then summarises the schools he attended, all the types of appointments he remembers going to, and the way in which home life with Mummy was a constant drilling in of proper behaviour. Talking about is not easy, but something in him now feels shaken loose.

Doctor Pichler listens, nodding occasionally until he concludes his explanation—delivered in an emotionless manner of which he is proud.

"When you were diagnosed, the people in your life received information that reflected that era," she comments. "It may be easy to be angry at them, now, for still employing those unconstructive methods in dealing with you but back then, it was not at all clear what the best thing to do was. That doubt and fear have traumatised many parents, too. In an account from the US in the seventies, a mother who then had a five-year-old, intellectually gifted child was told to put him in an institution and forget she ever had him. I'm not telling you this to insult or upset you, simply to illustrate that the vigour with which your parents seemed to have thrown themselves into ensuring you had help and the same opportunities for education as other children can be seen as somewhat progressive."

"So I should be _forgiving_? _Thankful_ , even?!" he spits out the words with incredulity.

"To understand is not the same as accept or forgive. Do your patients sometimes behave in a way that seems irrational or illogical, do they not? Do they have opinions which contradict your medical education and what you consider ethical?"

"Of course. Frequently."

"If you find out reasons behind their thinking, doesn't that make it easier to change their minds?"

"Of course."

"We are applying the same principle here. It may be possible to trace both the origins of your mother's methods and beliefs, _and_ the reasons she has persisted with them. Those reasons may be more complex and less black-and-white than you think."

Sherlock is not sold on this yet, but he sees the logic.

"Are you aware of the early theories regarding the aetiology of autism?" she asks.

"They blamed the mothers." 

"Indeed. They were described with the word _'frigidaire_ '; assumed coldness and lack of empathy for their child was blamed for the lack of neurotypical development. Under the guidance of then-renowned psychiatrist Bruno Bettelheim, this movement went so far as to remove autistic children from home and put them into care. If your mother was in any way exposed to residual thinking along these lines, overcompensating for her guilt could have led to an approach which may have seemed smotheringly dedicated and self-sacrificial. That approach can be characterised by amassing an ever-changing cadre of professional help, and being over-attentive yet withdrawing from engaging constructively with the autistic child. What lies beneath this is often guilt. Granted, such thinking began to wane as early as in the mid 60s, but even now that it should have largely disappeared, most parents whose child receives a diagnosis will ask themselves: _did we do something wrong_? Guilt is very human, Sherlock, and often misplaced."

"When the oxytocin discussion as a treatment for ASD began, I remember my mother commenting on it—not to me but to my father—and she was clearly upset by the notion."

Doctor Pichler nods. "The connection to motherhood."

Prior to overhearing the conversation one Christmas, Sherlock had followed the oxytocin debate only peripherally. Oxytocin, a hormone produced by all humans, is a treatment relatively recently proposed for treating the symptoms of ASD. "I haven't followed the latest research, but it was mildly interesting". His mother's reaction had put him off the topic.

Doctor Pichler nods. "It remains unclear whether it affects autistic individuals by modulating higher-level cognitive functions such as trust and reciprocity, or through direct effect on anxiety levels. It is not surprising that it's a controversial topic, considering that for long, it was believed that the hormone was only produced by women, for reproduction and breastfeeding."

Sherlock is frowning. "That description you just gave–– _'over-attentive yet withdrawing_ '… she constantly corrects me, berates me, assumes she knows how I feel and what I'm thinking better than I do, invalidates my opinions and assumes that _John is my live-in carer_." The final words are delivered from behind clenched teeth. It sounds so much worse when said out loud and brings on a fresh wave of fury.

"You know differently. And so does John. What about your brother?" Doctor Pichler asks.

Sherlock suspects she may be trying to steer the conversation away from Violet because it provokes him too much. "Mycroft just stays out of the way. I could say I get along with him, and that he doesn't exhibit much more scepticism now towards my abilities than the average holier-than-thou big brother would. He's tolerable."

"You don't mention your father very often when recounting your childhood."

"He was there, hovering in the periphery. Mummy has the reins in that relationship, he's more of a background figure. I wasn't his project—not like I was my mother's. When I had a chance to spend time with him, I enjoyed it. He didn't fuss or constantly try to educate me. He listened, which my mother never does, but he wouldn't side with me against her, not really. When I was little or home-schooled he worked, of course. He spent a lot of his leisure time with Mycroft, presumably because my mother monopolised me."

"Perhaps he wanted your brother to receive equal attention."

"I can't speculate on their logic, assuming there was any. Father goes along with whatever my mother believes. But, I do have a better relationship with him. God, if they'd only let me be like they let Mycroft be. He's their golden boy, and if he turned out perfectly well by assuming he could sort himself out, then why did she have to hound me all the time?"

"I'm not saying there couldn't have been a middle ground but, assuming your brother is not on the Spectrum, he might simply not have needed the support you did. Sherlock…as much as ASD children should have the same sort of happy and empowering childhood as neurotypical children, we cannot escape the fact that many of them do need a more engaged manner of parenting, and plenty of extra support, professional therapies included."

" _Special needs_ ," Sherlock mutters venomously. His mother probably believed herself terribly progressive and constructive by telling everyone he even briefly forced to interact with that he was a _special needs child_ , or that he was autistic. Presumably she assumed people would then overlook his gaffes, be kinder if he did or said something odd. What she hadn't understood was that it made people see _everything_ he said or did through a tinted lens. It put him into a limelight he didn't want. At Cambridge, it had been with triumphant glee that he had refused any and all attempts at classing him as a disabled or special needs student. He was finally old enough to decline, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. _He_ got to define what he was or wasn't, but that led to him being assessed and treated and judged like all the other students. Of course, he couldn't do as well as them in certain areas. In fact, if it hadn't been for his talents in research, they would probably have found a way to kick him out of medical school.

He downs the last of his tea. "My mother listened to so-called experts, read all the books she could find and then assumed I was going to exhibit all those traits, be saddled with all those limitations. Everything is a symptom, including all my feelings."

"I'm curious: have you often been in open confrontation with her regarding this?"

"When I was in my teens, yes. Frequently. Before I recognised it as an exercise in futility, I did express anger, of which I had plenty. I screamed in her face and felt as though she was pretending not to hear me, just chalking everything up to yet another _tantrum_. It felt as though she was pretending I was speaking a language she couldn't understand. Everything was labelled _acting out_ , me being the autistic self she equated with everything I did, felt and was. That just made me angrier—furious enough to break things. Enraged enough to…" he trails out, aware of how alarming mental health professionals tend to view certain habits. Such as pain as a means to drain out what otherwise would have crushed him, led into a meltdown if left unchecked.

"You don't react that way when you're angry now, do you?"

"No. I'm an adult and try to act accordingly. But, it's very difficult around her."

"Sometimes we, as adult children of our parents, only see how we have grown and changed. Parents should grow as their children grow; some parents' growth is stunted while some learn to nurture a new sort of relationship with their children, one based on the new selves of both."

Sherlock sighs. Violet Holmes is firmly stuck in the past. It all seems too futile right now, a Don Quixotic battle against a windmill in an apron and expensive knitwear.

"Would you say you sometimes behave the way she expects because you doubt she would ever believe you could do better?"

 _Touché_. "Too bloody often." He sighs. “The angrier I am, the worse it seems to get. You want _me_ to understand _her_? Why shouldn't she go first?" Sherlock isn't very keen on trying to put himself in her shoes. He prefers thinking that the gist of the problem is that she isn't trying to do the same for him. “Times have changed. I have changed. She hasn’t. Is it my fault she hasn’t bothered to keep up with how thinking about neurodiversity has changed?"

Doctor Pichler gives him a gentle smile. "You were three years old when _'infantile autism_ ' was first listed in the DSM classification—it was the first time it was officially distinguished from childhood schizophrenia. A psychology textbook from 1991 stated that autism was a rare disorder which, with few exceptions, leads to a life of marginal adjustment, often within an institution. Sherlock… having been born when you were, you are one of these exceptions, and I find it profoundly sad that for much of your life, you have not been able to take great pride in what you have achieved and built for yourself. Not as an autistic person, but in comparison to _anyone_. It would have been a massive feat for a gifted neurotypical to get where you are. Isn't it time you celebrated that instead of focusing on the negative? Whether your mother can join you in being proud of your accomplishments remains to be seen; what is much more important here is unspooling the strands of negativity that surround your self-image. Understanding where the attitudes that moulded that image may help."

He likes her theoretical approach, the way she gives things context. It helps him distance himself from the fact that they're discussing things which he finds difficult to deal with. "If my family took that view, it would be easier. To them, anything I achieve is simply good for someone with my _affliction_ , as my mother would call it."

She smiles. "Perhaps we could say that your parents represent the past, and John represents the future in how others deal with you being on the Spectrum."

"I'm always going to be saddled with that label and people's expectations; others have to _deal with_ me because of who I am. Things were good in Malawi. Really good. Until…" He had nearly said _'until she ruined it_ ', but that's not the truth, is it? It was a chain reaction. He was frustrated and fed up before they left, and that has merged with how angry he is at himself for what happened regarding the mugging. Add to that the way his mother had, perhaps inadvertently, twisted the knife.

He suddenly remembers the bafflingly good feedback he had received from his colleagues just after they returned from Malawi. It's in stark contrast with the fact that he's sitting in a therapist's office. Needing this, needing what Doctor Pichler insists calling _therapy_ is just more of the bloody same that was his whole childhood, which he'd like to douse with petrol and throw a match in.

It had felt particularly insulting how his mother had refused to even hear about why Malawi had been so important to him. _I've done better than she thinks_.

"In Malawi, you tasted a life in which you got treated like any other doctor, instead of carrying a label."

"John says he was not very knowledgeable in the subject matter, nor had he met many adult individuals on the Spectrum before we met, yet he manages to treat me with respect _everywhere_ , not just in Africa." Sherlock pinches his lips into an angry line. "I didn't want him to talk to you, originally. I worried you would put all those old-fashioned ideas in his head. Ideas like the ones my mother clings to. I was afraid that he'd treat me differently afterwards."

"That's understandable; you could not know what my opinions or approach would be like. When you have plucked up the courage to discuss your ASD with John, have those experiences been positive or negative?"

"Positive, for the most part. It took him some time to recognise how difficult it is for me to discuss it, and he respects that now, that I need to move at my own pace. It's a novelty, being asked about it instead of others just assuming what it's like to be me and how to fix it. It's just that I don't always know when I should be explaining such things to him—I'm not always aware of all the ways in which we function differently. Sometimes I can't explain it, even if I do understand it."

"Is John aware that you have booked these appointments as a follow-up to the first one last week?"

"Yes. I know he's worried about me being angry and frustrated, and he thinks my behaviour at work has deteriorated. He seems to be a rather empathetic person, especially when it comes to me. That's just who he is. "

"It's good to be empathetic towards those we love. It's important for trust. You yourself often expressed profound empathy for his struggles after Afghanistan."

Sherlock's laughter is hollow. "My mother should hear that. She still believes what all those old books say, that autism means I am some machine without any empathy. She is convinced that the feelings of others don't interest or concern me at all when it is the very opposite: what stresses me out is having to be highly engaged in trying not to insult or upset them all the time."

The psychiatrist glances at the wall clock. "I'm afraid our time is up. Ready to come back in a few days?"

He shrugs, stands up to dig his phone out of his pocket so that he can have a look at his calendar.

Joanna Pichler won't have all the answers, but perhaps she can help him find at least some of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "We Three Kings".
> 
> This is [the Lancet article](https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736\(07\)61322-1/fulltext). I wish it was made up. The historical context given to ASD and the therapies used in the time when Sherlock would have been a child is real.


	16. Brighter Visions Beam Afar

  
Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, Sherlock leans away from his laptop screen and prepares to reply to his husband's greeting.

The flat door opens and John enters, dropping his sports bag on the floor. He has taken up a weekly squash session with Peter Tranmer, one of King's physical therapists; they'd been playing before Sherlock came to work there, and John has been curious lately whether his bad shoulder could take the strain. Sherlock thinks Peter, who specialises in trauma patients, should be a good match partner; if John gets into trouble with his shoulder, Peter might be able to advise. Sherlock had found the man professional, patient and helpful when he was recovering from his cervical fracture and needed instructions to get his neck muscles back into shape.

"Hi," John comments after untying his dark green scarf. "Got through it this time without having to ice the shoulder."

"That's good," Sherlock comments, eyes glued to his laptop screen again.

John lifts a Waitrose bag on the kitchen table. "Could you sort these? I need a shower. There was a bloody queue to the cubicles at Flaxman."

Sherlock knows they play at Flaxman Sports Centre. It's information he has little need for, but such things have a habit of sticking to his mind. He often wishes he could reject pointless information before such fragments become more permanent memories.

"You could come with us, you know. We'd teach you the basics," John suggests, toeing off his shoes. "It's good cardio and you can do it with three." He then disappears into the bathroom and soon the shower gets turned on.

Sherlock has seen enough of squash on television to know it would be murder for his senses. The screeching of shoes on the floor, the sounds of the ball's impact against the walls, the body odours of various players who had used the space the same day mixing together with sweat and the pungent scent of rubber. Sherlock doubts he could even watch a match without getting exhausted by trying to control the sensory assault.

Objectively, it's nice of John to invite him along, unless it's just enthusiastic small talk brought on by lingering endorphin euphoria. But, if John means it, should Sherlock feel disheartened that it probably did not occur to John how taxing it would be for him? Or, could it be that it _did_ occur to John but he assumes Sherlock has the requisite skills to cope with such a situation? Does John think he should expose himself to such things on principle?

He recognises this last thought as mildly paranoid. ' _You overthink everything'_ , John often tells him, but how does one _stop_ thinking? How would a neurotypical person deal with John's suggestion? With a carefree laugh and a _'not interested_ '? That aspect of it hadn't even occurred to Sherlock before now. If there were no limitations set by the challenges of his particular central nervous system, _would_ he be interested? He enjoys several sports but slamming a ball around in a square room seems as pointless as all the ball-oriented team sports which were a frequent feature of physical education at Harrow. He always got picked last—not because he was the worst player, but because…

Suddenly, someone speaks right next to his ear: "What's that?"

Sherlock flinches; John has suddenly appeared behind him to peer over his shoulder at the screen of his laptop. How long had he been lost in thought? Startled and embarrassed by what John may have just seen, Sherlock slams the lid down.

Maybe he's overanalysing everything because he's just spent the last two hours reading up on things he had touched on during his last session with Doctor Pichler.

"Sorry," John says, slightly amused and perhaps a little baffled. "Didn't mean to pry. It's just, usually when you, you know… You do that in the bedroom so I didn't think––"

Sherlock blinks, mind flying a hundred miles an hour as he scrambles to understand the sheepishness in John's voice. Why are they _both_ now clearly embarrassed? It cannot have been the result of John seeing a medical article open on his laptop—why would John think he only reads those in the bedroom? How much of the screen's contents _had_ he seen? If very little, then what is he suspecting is the cause of Sherlock wanting to hide them from him?

 _Bedroom_ , his mind suddenly supplies. Oh. _OH._ "I wasn't masturbating," he informs John. Why would he do that with his trousers on and a pillow on his lap? Words often fail him, but sometimes it happens in astonishment over the severely disappointing deductive abilities of his husband.

Sherlock twists his torso so that he can look at John better. The amused bafflement is gone and now John is giving him a blank look which might be anticipatory or bored, depending on the context. Disappointment over his not-wanking? Would John have hoped he could join in? Is that why he had snuck up on Sherlock and spoken so close to his ear? Is that why he's wearing only a towel that's wrapped around his waist, the end of it tucked inside to create a a skirt-like configuration. There's a slight film of sweat on his stomach which would make pressing a cheek against it a somewhat unpleasant act, so Sherlock refrains. He does perch his fingertips on John's well-formed left brachioradialis muscle; he's a leftie, so there's a bit more bulk on that side. He runs his fingers towards John's thumb, mesmerised by the sight of the skin and thin, soft hairs shifting on top of deeper structures. Human surface anatomy has always fascinated him, both as a scientific field and in bed; the endless tactile variance provided by the feel of different joints, hairs, muscles and soft tissue both stationary and in movement provide him with just the distraction he needs from trying to anticipate what John wants from him and with him at different times during sex. He often lets John take the lead so that he can drift away on a cloud of sensation, allow himself to get fixated on whatever detail of his husband's anatomy might pique his interest.

"Tea?" John offers. "I also brought sushi if you're hungry. I already had some with Peter."

Sherlock hums in confirmation. He could eat. The neatness of sushi appeals to his sense of order; the ingredients are treated with respect, allowed to flaunt their natural taste. He can see what he's eating and gets to regulate the saltiness and amount of wasabi he puts on each piece. There are some varieties he detests, such as _inari_ where the rice is wrapped in a cold Aburaage tofu pouch which reminds Sherlock of embalmed skin. He's also not fond of the classic _tamago_ —Japanese omelette pieces on top of rice; it seems too sweet for what his brain keeps telling him should be a savoury morsel.

"Yes, but not the Earl Grey," Sherlock instructs. There's a new, expensive tin of just that in the front half of the tea shelf, the placement a sign that John means to use it in the near future.

"Why do you dislike it so much?" John asks, making his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I've told you; it's the bergamot."

"I don't actually know what that is."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's what _makes_ Earl Grey… _Earl Grey_. An inedible citrus fruit with a pungent smell based on linalool or its derivative, linalyl acetate, depending on when it's harvested. I detest it not only in beverages but also in men's fragrances. Neroli isn't much better," he adds, referring to an essential oil produced from the blossom of the bitter orange tree.

"Is that why you made me throw out that Penhaligon's one I got from Mycroft last year?"

Sherlock nods. " _Douro_ smells not only of bergamot but also of lily-of-the-valley which is hardly one of my favourites, either. Why anyone would douse themselves with such a thing is beyond me."

He expects John to shrug and say that he wasn't bothered by it but instead, John purses his lips in a way which Sherlock has deduced signifies having been given a new, acceptable idea and wanting to end the conversation.

Guilt creeps in to Sherlock's mood. Why does he keep suspecting John's motives, doubting his acceptance of his opinions and preferences? After he began communicating a bit more about things he finds difficult to manage or tolerate, John has been nothing but supportive even if he's sometimes surprised or fondly amused by what he learns. He'd never plonk on the dinner table something he knows Sherlock hates, or tell him to eat what he's given. He doesn't demand that Sherlock hugs people, doesn't snap at him when he's too anxious or distracted to make eye contact with someone. It's a startling realisation that a part of him still half-expects to be told off like that, expects to be constantly corrected and berated. He still watches himself like a hawk even in John's company for signs that he might be doing wrong things or things he needs to hide. It has nothing to do with John, and Sherlock hates the fact that this low, humming fear in his bones dares to interfere with his interactions with a husband he loves.

He rises from his chair by the small desk between the windows, grabs his laptop and goes to sit by the kitchen table, his back turned to John who's now pouring hot water onto a bag of whatever he's found in the cupboard that's not Earl Grey.

Sherlock pointedly opens the laptop lid; all John needs to do is to turn and he will see what it was that Sherlock was—is—reading and trying to conceal. For Sherlock, everything connected to ASD has always been heavily wrapped in shame, hidden away, but now Doctor Pichler is telling him it doesn't have to be that way. Sherlock knows he can't change the entire world, but maybe at home, with John, things could be different?

When John injured his shoulder, he was embarrassed by the injury, and Sherlock found that embarrassment completely unnecessary and detrimental to his recovery. He didn't shoot himself in the shoulder, nor had Sherlock any role in the fact that his brain decided to develop the way it did.

He's been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed John popping to their bedroom while the tea brewed to grab a pair of jeans, his house slippers, and a T-shirt. Now, he wanders back to pluck the teabags out of the mugs, pours in just a little bit of milk into Sherlock's, sprinkles some sugar into both drinks, then brings them to the table.

But, instead of sitting down, he heads to the fridge to put the milk back in.

Sherlock suddenly remembers he hadn't emptied the Waitrose bag and put its contents into where they belong. The bag is nowhere to be seen, so presumably John had done it at some point when he'd been too lost in thought to notice what was going on. Should he feel guilty about that, even if he didn't do it deliberately? This is what often happens to him: an intense subject that requires acute scrutinising takes over, and things of lesser importance just… fade out of his attention.

"I forgot about the groceries," he offers. "I was otherwise occupied."

"I know." John doesn't sound angry from behind the open fridge door. Presumably he is now taking out the sushi.

Sherlock had also managed to forget about eating while trying to decide whether to let John see his laptop screen, after all. "Too many things were competing for my attention, and I always prioritise trying to understand you."

John closes the fridge door, the expected black, clear-lidded plastic container in hand. "What?"

"It takes time, having to compare what I see and hear to prior instances we have communicated in which you have demonstrated something similar. It takes even more time to decipher what you really mean or want when I have to use things I have seen or heard other people do as a reference. I'm often lagging behind in following conversations because I can't read between the lines or understand expressions or tone of voice instinctively. By the time I've decided how I am expected to react, the discussion has moved on."

John puts the sushi next to Sherlock's mug of tea. He knows never to give Sherlock one of the rougher blue ceramic mugs they have three of, because the bottom and the inside of the handle are unglazed and feel like nails on a blackboard.

"I've noticed the blinking," John says after a short silence. "The blinking and the…um…deer-in-headlights look. I know when you're really struggling to decide what to say."

"You tend to cut in at that point, say something appropriate," Sherlock points out.

"Should I stop? I just… it just feels like the thing to do."

"When we're in the company of other people I mostly appreciate it. It buys me time. When it's just us… I just need more time to process things when we're not discussing concrete factual issues. If you say more, provide me with more things to analyse, it might just slow the whole process up."

John does give him time. He patiently waits while Sherlock tries to match words to concepts and get them in the right order. When Sherlock feels stressed the process becomes infinitely harder, because a voice in his head keeps hurrying him up, demanding that he speak. He knows where that voice comes from, of course. _Voices_ , plural, insisting that he speak in a situation when finding words is the most difficult thing for him. It's a very old, primal panic that strikes him when he feels that he is having a very important conversation with someone and it's his turn to respond. It's even worse when he's anxious and someone is demanding him to verbalise how he feels.

John grabs his own mug from the counter and is about to seat himself when he catches a glimpse of what's on Sherlock's screen. " _A.B.A_. What's that?" He sits in the chair opposite.

Sherlock pushes the laptop to the end of the table so that it's between them, turns the screen so that they can both see it well. Open in a tab is an article called " _Behavioral Intervention for Children With Autism Spectrum Disorder in a Community Setting_ " from the 2018 July edition of _Behavioural Modification_ , and John's eyes must have caught on an unfamiliar abbreviation.

Sherlock explains: "Despite the intense backlash from ASD advocacy groups towards its use, there is very little scientific literature discouraging the use of Applied Behavioural Analysis in treating autistic children." He has been reading both sides of the debate. "The method has changed to some extent and there are several schools of ABA, but the essentials appear to be the same as in the 1980s. Even modern studies on efficacy focus on overt behaviour as a measure of success instead of taking into account the potential sequelae of the stress caused by such therapies on long-term psychological well-being."

"So, what you're saying is that as long as those kids behave the way they're expected to after they've had this therapy, it's considered a success?"

"Precisely."

John sips his tea. "Why do people oppose it?"

Sherlock bites his lip. He knows there's an unspoken question that hangs between them: _why are we discussing this?_ As long as John doesn't ask it out loud, Sherlock should be able to keep this on a general, factual, theoretical level.

Through the years, he has kept up with new research regarding autism, but his interest has been rigidly focused on the neuroscience, pharmacology and neuroanatomy. He has meticulously pushed away everything pertaining to the interventional psychology, because he had instinctively suspected it mind remind him of things he prefers not to dwell on. It had never occurred to him that reading about all this could help put it in perspective, to make him feel less alone with his memories, to feel consoled by the fact that people like him are speaking out against what he was subjected to. _I just wanted to forget_.

Never before could he have imagined encouraging John to ask him to explain his own experiences. The deduction can't have eluded his husband that his research interest in this particular therapy method could well be personal. John can be an idiot sometimes, but when it comes to Sherlock he's shrewder than even Sherlock often gives him credit for.

 _Yes_ , Sherlock decides. He _wants_ to talk about this. He wants to break the glass cage he's built around the whole topic so that he wouldn't have to be so careful around it anymore. He's tired of his memory being a minefield.

"It's what it says on the tin," he starts. "Behavioural _modification_. Never mind how the subject feels about it, or _why_ they behave the way they do. Sessions tend to be long, with little or no breaks. Once a therapist gives a command, it is to be followed through without exception. It's compliance training; a patient saying no or getting upset has no relevance, since the task must be completed. The assumption is that there can't ever be a valid reason for the patient to decline, and adverse reactions are labelled tantrums, a habit which must be culled. Both positive and negative reinforcement can be used to ensure compliance; negative reinforcement can include physical or sensory punishment. Positive reinforcement is… finding out what a child most likes and is interested in and taking that away, limiting access to it, only using it as a reward during therapy sessions. Parents are encouraged to do the same in demanding the desired behaviours when the therapist isn't present."

John looks… if not shocked, then at least alarmed. "You mean that it all sort of continues between actual therapy sessions?"

"Often, the therapist comes to the family home to conduct the sessions. It's relentless. Up to forty hours a week can be recommended, even for small children. Plus what the parents do to maintain the results."

"The parents…what? Are they present during the therapy?"

"Not usually, no. Therapists discourage it because the parents may find it difficult to see their child in distress."

"But that's…" John shakes his head.

Sherlock pushes on with his explanation. "Common social behaviour goals include making eye contact, hugging or otherwise physically engaging with others on cue, smiling on cue, speaking when spoken to even in stressful situations, parroting expected phrases connected to different scenarios. Putting others at _ease_ ," he adds bitterly, "so that they wouldn't have to put up with unwanted autistic behaviour."

"What about communicating stuff such as being uncomfortable, needing a break or…not liking something?" John suggests.

Sherlock flicks his wrist dismissively. " _Irrelevant_. That would be accepting and reinforcing behaviours considered unwanted and pathological. Even profound discomfort is seen as just a part of the process. Rewards should be denied until the undesired behaviour stops and goals are met; those rewards include breaks, food and displays of affection."

He remembers when they took away his collection of bones and feathers. The textures of those things underneath his fingertips, finding out what sort of a creature they belonged to, cleaning and arranging them had been something that always calmed him down, engaged his intellect. Suddenly, it was just a reward: _'you get_ _ten minutes, Sherlock_.' There was nothing meaningful he could do with those items in ten minutes; it wouldn't be enough to get to his books, or go outside to see if there was something new to find… It confused him endlessly how giving him that brief access was supposed to be beneficial. All it did was remind him that they—his parents, the therapists—held all the power over him.

He had wanted and tried to stay detached, to be rational and analytical in this conversation, but it's so hard to keep his memories separate from what he's telling John, and his anxiety is ratcheting up. It seems to live within his neural pathways like the Varicella virus, ready to crawl back to the surface after the right trigger hits. He realises his hands are shaking and that he's pressing his right thumbnail to a spot close to the nailbeds of each of the other right-hand fingers, one after the other until starting the next round and then the next round. It doesn't quite hurt; the sensation is mostly pressure and there's no risk of the skin breaking but it must look odd.

John notices him staring at his hand. He reaches out to place his own on Sherlock's fidgeting fingers, but Sherlock withdraws and quickly places his both hands on his knees.

"Don't," he tells John. "Please," he adds, and this is a rare occasion on which the word has genuine meaning instead of being part of some script drilled into him. "I need it… I mean, I need to do things like that. A lot of the time."

"Sorry," John says. "It's just that those things––"

"Look strange? Make you uncomfortable? Make you embarrassed?"

"No. It just makes me think you're very nervous or upset and I want to help." John looks down at the table in front of Sherlock as though he's trying to see through it to where he's concealed his hands. "Don't hide it."

"I do worse things than that," Sherlock announces. "Weirder things. I don't let you see them."

John probably thinks he just fidgets and smokes cigarettes and that's the worst of it. He's not really seen the flapping, or Sherlock talking to himself, or humming, or needing to touch certain things the textures of which he likes for a long time, except when they're a part of John and when it's contextually appropriate such as when they're having sex. There are so many things he needs and wants to do which are not acceptable—it's not just the stimming. All the things he likes repeating, words and numbers he prefers, the way his possessions such as his socks need to be organised just _so_ … they're not all just for calming himself down; John can't possibly imagine the joy he derives from being able to focus on what he's interested in, the way certain tastes and textures and sounds just make him positively _melt_ ––

"Assuming they're not dangerous, what's so wrong with them?" John asks.

The question strikes hard, and Sherlock finds himself utterly devoid of an answer.

John's features shift into a smile which thankfully carries no pity or confusion. " _Sherlock_. The stuff we've done in bed, seeing each other like that, knowing what we sound like and what we look like and what our bodies look like then…when we've shared much more intimate things, how can you think that a bit of stimming would be something you can't share with me?"

Sherlock tries to put his hands back on the table but he just can't, because it's _wrong_. He _knows_ it's not, yet it _is_ , and there are two parts of him struggling now, because the sense of dread over such a minuscule, insignificant act is just too much.

Thankfully, John puts two and two together. Clever, _wonderful_ John who doesn't torment him by demanding that he explain the strange struggle of letting him have a glimpse of what Sherlock needs every day to contain himself.

"Did they say you weren't allowed to do those things? Your therapists, I mean?" is what John asks.

This is the first time the conversation has turned to Sherlock specifically, even though they both must have known who they have really been discussing all this time.

"They told me––" Sherlock pauses to swallow; his mouth has gone dry. "I had to sit on my hands. For hours. Sometimes all day, if I wasn't performing to their standards and couldn't not do it. At weekends, I had six-hour sessions. On weekdays, one or two. Just one or two," he assures John.

 _'Quiet hands, Sherlock_.' God, he had hated those words, repeated like a broken record at every session if he so much as shifted in his chair. Having no outlet for all the restless, gathering energy his anxiety whipped up during those sessions made him feel like the walls were closing in. At least on weekends, after the sessions concluded, if he had _behaved himself_ , he was allowed to help a neighbouring farm with their horses. It was allowed probably because his mother hadn't realised one of the reasons he loved going there was that he could stim as much as he needed. The smells were earthy, calming even; the stables were quiet save for the sounds of the animals. Nobody demanded conversation; he was simply directed to simple tasks he could help with, but most of all: he was allowed to stay there for hours, stroking the horses, untangling their mane hair with his fingers, relishing the calming smell of oiled leather and straw. The feel of smooth, warm skin or soft horse hair was better, more effective than any amount of pacing or flicking his fingers.

The owner was an old man who kept the horses for a brewery; he'd lost his wife years earlier and their children were grown. He was a quiet presence who let Sherlock be. He very much reminded Sherlock of his dad, but at home it was impossible to spend time with just him; Violet would never stay away for long. When he grew up and went to Harrow, the therapy sessions became different and much more infrequent. It would have been a relief, if Harrow didn't come with all the other students and having to live there. When Sherlock came home for the holidays, all the pent-up frustration and anger and everything else he couldn't even name came out in a mighty wave of what Violet would then dismiss as _tantrums_ and _teenage hormones_.

"Sherlock?"

John calling out his name bring him out of his recollections and he physically shakes his head to banish them.

John puts the mug he'd been holding on the table. His mouth is an angry line, his shoulders squared with determination. "How is that _therapy_ , hm? It sounds more like child abuse. Who the fuck––" he curses, growling out the words, "––would put their child through something like that?"

"Ask my mother," Sherlock says calmly, and goes to put their empty mugs in the sink.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

   
Five days later, John peeks into the sitting room to make sure Sherlock still has his noise-cancelling headphones on, then quietly climbs upstairs to the guest bedroom. He closes the door and sits down on the bed before unlocking the phone he's held in his hand and activating the number he'd had already selected downstairs.

Joanna Pichler picks up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Yeah, um…it's John. Watson."

He doesn't like going behind Sherlock's back like this, but when he had gone to see Doctor Pichler, Sherlock had given him permission to discuss any and all matters pertaining to him and their relationship. Before calling her the last time to reserve an appointment, he had asked Sherlock twice—to be absolutely sure—if it was alright for him to talk to her about what was going on. On both times the answer had been _yes_.

"Hello, John!" the psychiatrist sounds politely delighted.

"I hope this is a convenient time?" John asks.

"It's perfect; my last patient of the day has just left. What's on your mind?"

"It's, well, Sherlock," he says, followed by an awkward chuckle. "As you probably guessed."

"Yes?" She doesn't sound quite concerned yet, which John decides is a good sign.

"He's been a bit… I don't know how to explain, really. Is he quite alright?"

"You've seen him last, I suspect," Doctor Pichler says pleasantly. "Has something happened since my latest session with him?"

John lets out a breath to buy time. _How should I explain this?_ "He's been talking to me about stuff he's never spoken about before. And, he does these things––" John describes the hand-flapping against thighs, the strange, rhythmic pacing and the long, animated, muttering conversations Sherlock has been having with himself in the sitting room. "And, I think he's getting a little bit obsessed with some things. He's been reading up on ASD a lot. Keeps sending me research articles by email. It feels like he's…trying to _solve_ something. That's the best way I can describe it."

"Is intense focus and extensive research on a single topic uncharacteristic of him?"

"No, not at all. It sort of looks the same as when he's got a labour-heavy research project bit going."

"How would you describe his mood?"

"Restless but… better, I guess. Much better than after Christmas. What I was wondering is… do you think he should be on sick leave? He must have been discussing some pretty heavy stuff with you, and now he's being like this."

"How is his work performance?"

"I don't know. Nobody's complaining right now, and he seems more energetic. It's just that he was at it—the research, I mean—all weekend, seemed a bit manic, but some of that's just very _him_." Sherlock has been walking on furniture, printing out things and spreading them around the flat, jotting down notes in the margins.

"As you said, intense special interests are not unusual for him. This time the topic simply happens to be himself."

"Yeah, I sort of gathered that. He doesn't really talk about himself in connection to what he's reading—well, not much, but those things have to have some personal meaning, otherwise it wouldn't make sense. We did actually talk about this one thing, ABA I think it was called."

"If he's researching ASD and therapies used with children on the Spectrum then yes, they are very much connected to themes we've been exploring."

"I've seen him depressed before, but all the anger was—is—new. I can't mention Christmas or his mother without getting snapped at. After Christmas he seemed to be having some sort of a crisis; what's going on now could be connected to that," John suggests.

"The word _crisis_ has many definitions, John, many of them describing it as a life-altering event which puts into motion an adjustment process. That adjustment requires lots of mental energy and resilience, which leave less of those faculties for routine things. It's also why any additional stress during such a time may prove too much to handle. For someone on the Spectrum, developmental and life cycle crises can be a bigger-than-average challenge, and crises often make us re-evaluate our lives up to that point, even redefine our past. Personally, I like the definition that a crisis is a pit stop on the way to something new."

"Something better or something worse?"

"That depends on many factors. If we try to deny what's happening, to push it away, it may still manifest itself, even years later. A crisis is always a destabilising event, but with the right support the end result can be a great improvement upon one's life."

"I just can't quite grasp what started all this. There was the mugging, but why is he looking into all this ASD stuff, now?"

"It's not an official term, but what has come to mind several times during our recent sessions is a term many individuals on the Spectrum have adopted to describe a crisis during which their mental reserves have run out and dealing with the routine stressors of their everyday lives can become too demanding. They call it autistic burnout. One of the signs associated is the regression of skills—this can mean communication or social coping skills, self-care skills or, in some cases, the re-emergence of such things as meltdowns."

"Was it the mugging?" _I should have paid more attention. We shouldn't have gone to Sussex._

"Not singularly, no. As traumatising as it was, I don't think that alone could have brought this on."

"Then what did?"

"This is what we are still exploring. But… it seems that your experiences in Africa may have, for the first time, offered Sherlock an experience of what his life could be life without constant reminders of his being on the Spectrum. Now, I think he longs to continue living that way, which is why returning to London has been challenging. There's also been a big change of routine and surroundings with your move to a new home. The mugging was a devastating blow to his self-esteem, and when the extreme stress he experiences when interacting with his mother was added, it all pushed him over the edge, so to speak. There are past issues which have never been addressed regarding his childhood and family, and those issues seem to have become acute."

"Yeah, there bloody well are issues," John comments. "Christ. When he told me about the therapy he had… How the hell––" he shakes his head. "It was just surreal."

"Unfortunately, his experiences are not rare for his generation. He's trying to understand them; for the first time, I think, he's trying to find the words to describe them instead of just trying to forget. Protective traumatic amnesia is mostly a myth, John; in most cases people with severely debilitating past experiences are having much more trouble _not_ thinking about them."

"What should I do? What _can_ I do?" John asks.

"Nothing you are not already doing, I suspect. Be there for him. Listen. Don't dismiss his experiences, don't defend those towards whom he expresses anger."

"I shouldn't worry about all this research, then?"

"I wouldn't worry about that at all, John. There's a lot of things he needs to process, but all things considered, I think he's doing quite well."

John chuckles. "So, what you're saying is that I need to trust the process?"

"Indeed," she laughs. "Oh, about those things you described earlier? About those physical behaviours he hasn't manifested before in your presence?"

"Yeah?" John asks, shifting the mobile to his other ear. He can't hear any footsteps from downstairs, thankfully, but he should end the call soon to avoid Sherlock getting suspicious. "Should I worry about those?"

"No," Doctor Pichler says firmly. "I believe those behaviours are a sign that a trust has been bestowed upon you which Sherlock has never willingly awarded to anyone else."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * title from "Angels from The Realms of Glory"


	17. The Hopes and Fears of All the Years

 

John is glad of his decision to come by Tube; parking in the Piccadilly area is a nightmare, particularly on a sunny mid-January afternoon when shoppers' purse strings are being loosened again after a brief post-Christmas frugality. Fortnum & Mason is heaving and John decides against picking up some ready-made food for the evening since the queues to the cashiers must be murder.

His destination is the Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon, instead. That's where Violet is waiting for him and has instructed the head waiter to pluck John out of the queue of hopeful customers. She is moving a great pile of shopping bags off the chair next to hers as he weaves his way through the tables and takes a seat. The table for two already has a three-tiered rack of assorted cakes, sandwiches and scones on it, as well as an elegant pot of tea, all in matching china coloured in that peculiar shade between blue and green that is the trademark of London's most famous department store after Harrods.

"Oh, John; I am so _pleased_ to see you!"

He takes the hand she offers and bends to give it an air kiss, which makes her giggle. As he takes his seat, she gushes, "Always the gentleman, aren’t you. I hope you don’t mind; I've ordered for both of us." She waves in the general direction of the queue. "It’s always _so_ busy during the January sales. The whole world seems to want to have tea here."

John had googled the Tea Salon before arriving—he’d wanted to know what he was in for. Decorated tastefully in muted shades of gold, cream and moss green, it used to be a private apartment for the Fortnum Family. The place is on plenty of top ten lists for the best places in London to have tea, and it's just the sort of place he would expect Violet to frequent.

"How did you manage to get a table?" he asks.

She laughs. "I book every year—back in August, when no one is thinking about it. I’ve been trying to get Sherlock to join me for the past decade, but he’s never come. If Mycroft is in town, he's always happy enough to keep me company."

John surveys the multitude of fancy cakes on the stand and can't help realising what comment Sherlock would make regarding his older brother's reasons for accepting such an invitation. Looking around the high-ceilinged room, listening to the crash and clatter of tea cups and cutlery, and the loud hum of a dozen shrill female conversations competing with the grand piano being played in the background, John instantly knows exactly why Sherlock would have preferred to be anywhere else but here; the cacophony of noise would quickly stress him out. John finds it odd that Violet would not have also realised this. Sherlock certainly appreciates good restaurants and cafés, but the ambient noise level and the atmosphere are as important for him as the culinary offerings.

"I am disappointed that not even your encouragement could summon him," Violet laments.

John unfolds a linen napkin and places it on his lap, resisting the temptation to point out that Sherlock can't really be _summoned_ anywhere, often not even by his superiors at work.

Circumspectly, he replies: "Sherlock is on call at King's; he's happy to work at this time of year, since so many other surgeons are looking for extra time off to spend with their kids." He knows Sherlock had taken this extra Saturday duty not out of charity but because he wanted to ensure there was no way he would end up right here. He could have just refused, of course, but John had picked up a certain vengefulness in him when he declared hell would freeze over before he'd join his mother for tea. Taking up extra work seems to be his way of adding insult to injury.

Violet has loaded a plate with far too much and puts it in front of John. "Shall I be mother?" Laughing, she pours milk from the china jug into his cup. "The tea is Royal Blend; I hope you like it."

John offers a polite smile. Violet is enamoured of all things royal. That must drive Sherlock wild, as John knows that he is dismissive of what he calls ' _the ridiculous anachronism of a royal family in a country that also boasts of the Mother of all Parliaments_ '. John had once teased him that if he’d been born in the late sixteenth century, Sherlock would probably have been one of Guido Fawkes’ co-conspirators. Sherlock had sniffed and declared: _"Certainly not_. _I cannot be bothered by politics; boring beyond belief, even when things are blowing up._ "

John takes a sip of the tea and nods. "Nice."

"It’s a beautiful tea. Flowery Pekoe from Ceylon blended with Assam, just enough to give it some honey and malty notes. Fortnum’s signature blend since Edward the Sixth." 

"Sherlock's favourite is Darjeeling." 

Violet shrugs. "I know, my dear. He’s always been fussy about tea. First flush this and all that. I’ve bought him some Bannockburn for his birthday. It’s exclusive to Fortnum’s, but it seems that he wouldn’t be caught dead in here, so I got it for him, FTGFOP and all that."

"Excuse me?" John is confused by the load of initials.

"Finest Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe Darjeeling. Personally, I think it’s a bit bland, but you know him—so sensitive and picky about what he eats and drinks."

Diplomatically, John doesn’t answer, focusing instead on eating a piece of the Battenburg cake; it’s a chequerboard pattern of vanilla cake alternating with a luridly pink, raspberry-flavoured sponge, all wrapped in a layer of marzipan.

"That’s actually why I asked you to come to tea today. After that temper-tantrum he had, it seems he's not speaking to me and it's gone on long enough. I’ve tried calling him—repeatedly; I have the new phone number Mycroft got from him and even left messages on his answer service, but he's not replying. Oh, I wish that boy would finally learn how very important it is to stick together as a family," Violet complains pointedly.

It reminds John of the snippets of conversation between her and George at Christmas regarding something they obviously hadn't wanted to divulge then. If she doesn't spill the beans today then perhaps the issue is no longer acute.

"He's never sulked for this long before; John, you need to tell him to stop this. It is most childish."

John stifles a sigh. He had suspected as much—that this meeting had been couched less as an invitation and more as a command performance. When he'd first told Sherlock about it, he'd rolled his eyes and protested that she was bound to try to get John to play peace-maker. He had asked Sherlock if he should decline and had been slightly surprised when he’d said, " _Oh, do go_.  _It will save me from having to tell her that I want to spend as little time as possible in her company. And you will get a good tea, if you don’t mind the inquisition that comes with it. I trust you_."

John knows exactly why Violet has had no answer to her messages, but no power on earth is going to get him to betray Sherlock's trust. As far as she is concerned, they've only had a spat; Sherlock wouldn't want him to share details of how troubled he's been after Christmas. The meltdown will not be mentioned, nor will the appointments with Doctor Pichler—not even John is allowed to ask anything about the former; Sherlock will simply walk away and slam the bedroom door in his wake. Sherlock had even been livid at Mycroft for giving Violet his new number. If John explained all this to Violet, it would only upset her further and her demands that Sherlock come see her—or, heaven forbid, she might show up herself at the new flat at Baker Street—would intensify.

One thing John knows for certain is that Sherlock needs time and privacy right now, as he processes whatever it is he needs to process. Even without knowing all the details, John is certain that Violet's interference at this point would be disastrous.

What Sherlock has shared recently about his childhood is often in John's thoughts. He's trying to keep in mind that every story has two sides and he's not heard Violet's, but the intense need to protect Sherlock is making it difficult to treat Violet neutrally right now. John has questions, the answers to which might forever change the way he thinks about his mother-in-law—and not in a good way.

Antagonising her will lead to nothing good, so he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Not going to get between a mother and her son when they’re arguing."

"Oh, John, _why_ is he in such a strop? I don't understand. That business on Christmas Day just seemed like he's regressed back to his teenage silliness, making a scene and storming off in a huff whenever he gets riled up over something. Do you think that Africa made him worse, somehow? He was so far from his comfort zone; you know how he needs predictable routines and familiar surroundings. It must have been a torture. Maybe it's stressed him out too much."

John swallows down the second half of a chocolate praline. "It wasn’t like that. As we both told you, it was his idea in the first place. And, he was brilliant out there."

"Then why would he be so out of sorts now?" She splits open a scone and spreads the clotted cream with a little bit more force than might be necessary before spooning strawberry jam on the top. "He’s always been so volatile and difficult, slammed doors nearly off their hinges in his teens. I’d thought he might settle down a bit once he got married. You are such a good influence on him. Why can’t you make him see sense?"

John tries to change the subject. "Sherlock always puts the jam on first and then the clotted cream."

She laughs. "Family joke, that one. He and George follow the Cornish approach—jam first, cream on top—while Mycroft and I prefer it Devon style, which is the proper way. After all, the cream is a substitute for the butter that everyone else puts on first, followed by the jam. Sometimes I think George only takes his side so it wouldn’t be three against one, as it so often was."

John finds it odd that she'd be aware of that power imbalance, yet so often reinforce it. He manages to smirk. "A family divided by scone protocol; that’s a new one on me."

Having consumed the pastry in three bites, Violet washes it down with some tea. "Back to what I was saying… How am I going to get through to him? First, he was so _rude_ to me about the gift. I had really tried to find something suitable, something that would be useful to both of you. You’ve got such demanding careers and managing himself at work must take all the focus and energy he's got. Not to put too fine a point on it, you both need a _wife_ ; not that I am suggesting a ménage à trois, of course.Short of getting you two a housekeeper, I don’t know how else to help take some pressure off your shoulders; that gift was as much for you as it was for him. I thought the concierge idea was perfect!"

"We manage just fine, Violet. No need to worry about us."

She looks flustered. "But, who will sew on his buttons? It’s not fair to make you do all the shopping, the housework, not to mention the nagging that has to be done to get him to do even the simplest things."

John remembers coming home from squash and Sherlock forgetting about the groceries. Sherlock _knows_ things sometimes slip his attention, but his explanation had made it clear he can't always just _try harder_ , and he feels guilty over not always doing everything John expects him to do.

"He doesn't need nagging," John says amicably.

She rolls her eyes at him, in a manner that makes John realise where Sherlock got his from. "Tell another lie, John Watson, and I will take that last brownie on the plate instead of letting you have it." She lifts her napkin to dab her mouth where some clotted cream is proving too resistant to a discrete swipe of her tongue.

She draws breath and then launches off. "He might call it nagging; all those doctors and therapists called it something different. They said family members need to help compensate for his lack of executive functioning. William has never had a grasp of priorities or time; he's the most unpunctual and disorganised person I know. Constant reminders—I used to plaster his bedroom door with numbered post-it notes that he could only take off once he'd done the task on it. When he was little, those notes had to have pictures on them, because it took him forever to learn how to read."

John frowns. He remembers Sherlock telling him he'd learned to read at the age of four, and that he'd read well above his age level on first grade. Perhaps what Violet has misinterpreted as illiteracy is Sherlock's tendency not to pay attention to certain things when he doesn't understand why they are important to other people. She is right, of course, about Sherlock's odd priorities: paying the bills doesn't rate very highly, whereas some obscure medical thing he might suddenly get fascinated by will dominate everything else, including sleeping and eating. Verbally conveyed information can easily get ignored, but things that John writes down will usually be read and addressed. That's not dissimilar to Violet's post-it system, is it? Sherlock always sets up lots of alerts on his phone, which to John seems like a rather similar method.

Still, it's not right to say that Sherlock constantly needs other people to tell him what to do. He would not have got through medical school or specialty training if he didn't do everything his studies and his work requires safely and meticulously. At work, John doesn't find him disorganised at all, because he prioritises all patient-related matters very highly.

"I had to set his alarm clock half a dozen times a day to remind him go into his bedroom to see the notes," Violet adds. "From brushing his teeth to eating lunch, it all had to be programmed, and he had to be reminded every day. He's always avoided anything he dislikes, from dental appointments to remembering to eat. Thank God somewhere along the line the personal hygiene lessons made an impression. At least you don't have to tell him to go take a shower every day. Oh, sweet heaven, having two teenage boys in the house—not that Mycroft gave me any proper trouble, though, he was always such a responsible young man. Perhaps he was a respite the universe gave me because it realised Sherlock was enough of a handful."

Anger prickles at the back of John's mind. Have the things Sherlock has shared with him lately made him more prone to picking up the nearly constant belittlement of and complaints about Sherlock in Violet's diatribes?

While John is trying to figure out how to deal with the torrent of words, Violet takes a breath and then she’s off again. "You have no idea; _he_ has no idea how much I worry about him. No one can appreciate what it means to raise a child like him. I had such an easy time with Mycroft; his early years didn't prepare me at all for what it would be like with William."

John puts his spoon down on his saucer and fixes his gaze on Violet. "What do you mean?"

She gives a self-conscious laugh. "George and I used to say to each other that Mikey came pre-loaded, all the software already installed. He was such a good little boy, slept through the night from almost the second month. William was born prematurely and cried almost continuously for the first year of his life, the poor mite. Maybe it was colic, or maybe it was just, well, _him_ —it was hard to tell. Sleep deprivation does weird things to your mind, you know. I kept taking him to the GP, certain that there was something dreadfully wrong with him, some horrible disease. I just wanted someone to fix him—he wouldn't even look at people and babies should want to do that, shouldn't they, and I know that's not how colicky babies should be, is it? They should want Mummy's attention. Will--- _Sherlock_ didn't want cuddles, wasn't really interested in people _at all_ , and got fussy over the strangest things, things that other babies and toddlers would be happy about. And then, when he wouldn't talk until he was almost three, well, you can imagine how worried we were. He did the oddest things with his toys—if he was even interested in them—and he wanted to do the same things over and over again as though he was just possessed; light switches were his favourite. He screamed like I'd lit him on fire if I tried to make him wear certain kinds of clothes, and like I said, he never wanted to be hugged, not even when he was terribly upset. A mother just _knows_ , and I refused to give up until they found out what was wrong with him."

Violet has often shared stories with John about her youngest son's childhood, and when it happens in Sherlock's presence it has always made John uneasy because he can read it on his partner's expression that he hates being spoken about like that. On the other hand, John has always had the niggling sense that Violet has some strange need to talk about these things. It's as though she needs confirmation for her opinions, for her interpretations, support for her decisions even if she sounds very outwardly confident about them. _Even now, over thirty years later_. Without Sherlock present, it feels almost worse to listen to her, and John is getting impatient with the need to repeat that he can't snap his fingers and fix what's going on between Sherlock and his mother.

"In a way, we were relieved when the official diagnosis came through, at least at first. But then the guilt set in," Violet says.

"Guilt?!" John’s eyebrows climb up his forehead in surprise.

She looks surprised at his reaction. "Of course, guilt. You're a doctor, you must know autism isn’t something a child can catch, and it's not vaccines or any of that other rubbish that people blame it on. It’s a genetic defect, and George’s and my genes must be the cause of that poor child’s suffering. Such bad luck he had, compared to Mikey."

John has no idea what to say.

Violet sighs. "That guilt made me pour everything I had into trying to find ways to help him fit in, to have a normal life. I read everything I could get my hands on; we went from one so-called expert to another, from therapist to therapist. Nothing seemed to work. He ignored other children, who are vicious little animals when they sense someone is different. I had to home-school him in the end through the primary years; he was just so vulnerable to bullies. The school didn't know what to do with him and I refused––I _absolutely_ refused to send him to some special school, he was too clever to be put there with children with half his IQ; how would he ever learn to be with normal children if there weren't any around him? A special school would never have pushed him hard enough but thankfully, we eventually found therapists who had enough weekly availability to start making a difference. William's intelligence was never in doubt, but everything else… I never knew children could be so stubborn. Oh, John, I used to lie awake all night trying to imagine how on earth he'd ever cope when he grew up. You have no idea the terror involved when your child is just so _vulnerable._ When he went off to Harrow, I thought I was going to die from the worry. I wouldn't have sent him there—I was so sure a day school would be much better than a boarding school for him, but George thought it was a good idea, that he was ready. The boys there were so beastly to him, and then that Victor got him mixed up in such terrible things in sixth form…"

John can see that she is working herself up into a state. "Well, as someone we both love says: that was then, and this is now. Maybe it’s time you stopped worrying so much; he’s a responsible adult now, with the career he wanted."

She looks at him in surprise. " _Responsible_? If he is so responsible these days, then why did he wander off into some crime-ridden area and get mugged, or get himself lost in the dark at Christmas? For God’s sake, John, they could have _killed_ him!" She takes a sip of tea, as if it might calm her a bit. "Sorry; I don’t like being melodramatic, but he drives me to it. I know you love him and want him to get what he wants, but you shouldn't go along with all these ideas of his. You could have just had a nice holiday in Africa; why on Earth would he want to _work_ there?"

 _Why can't she listen to a single word of what we've told her about our time in Malosa?_ John wonders. He takes a moment to consider whether discussing Sherlock's reasons for suggesting the working honeymoon would reveal something Sherlock wouldn't want him to. It's just that Violet's assumptions are beginning to severely grate on John's is nerves. "He told me he wanted to do it because he wanted to see if he could. And he did great."

"Great for _him_ , you mean," Violet dismisses. "A mother never stops worrying about her children. And when that child is aut…" she stops, and then continues, "… _neuroatypical_ , isn’t that the polite term these days? In any case, when they are like that, the worry doesn't stop when they are supposed to have grown up because in some ways, they never do."

"I seem to remember my mother worried about me and Harry until the day she died, and it wasn’t that long ago." His mother should have worried even more about herself in the violent, destructive marriage she had chosen to stay in even when she no longer had the excuse of keeping the family intact because of young children.

"Well, there you are. Mothers do that, and I’m not going to apologise for it. Thank God for you, John Watson, that is all I can say. If it weren’t for you, I swear I don't think I'd ever sleep a wink. He needs someone to look after him."

"Violet—I don’t mother him. Not at all."

Sherlock seems to credits many good things in his life to John's presence in it, even though he had been the one to fight his way through university and most of speciality training before John even came along. It's Sherlock who's done a lot of work to learn to deal with John's friends and their colleagues and other staff at King's. All he's needed is support, not for someone to constantly smooth the way for him. _No wonder he has no confidence, when even his mother doesn't think much of his life skills_ , John thinks.

Violet looks unconvinced. "Don’t pretend that you don’t clean up the messes he makes with other people at the hospital. God knows why he ever chose a career that exposes his lack of social skills so blatantly, when he could have stayed in medical research and made a name for himself with that contraption of his. He says the wrong things at the most inappropriate time, doesn't care what other people are feeling. Hasn’t the faintest idea. People don’t expect much out of scientists in that regard, do they? He could have just hired a posse of researchers to do the talking and the fund-raising, and just stick to the design engineering. His communication deficits must make his patients react badly to him. If he can't even look someone in the eye when he's telling them they've got a brain tumour, how is that going to work?"

" _Violet_ ," John warns. She can't seriously expect him to just nod like a bobblehead when she's saying such things about his husband? Sherlock might not be good at reading between the lines or interpreting other people's tones or expressions or addressing their emotions, but to say that he doesn't _care_ about how other people feel is just wrong. Through the years of being together, John has witnessed just how much his husband cares about how he feels. Sometimes he thinks Sherlock cares too damned much and is willing to neglect his own needs to fulfil John's.

So, he feels duty-bound to set the record straight. "You're being unfair. I have never felt as though he doesn't care about my feelings. And, at King's, he manages plenty well enough with his colleagues—the feedback he recently got from peer review was a whole lot more positive than the picture you’re painting. As for patients, most of them respect his honesty and how good he is as a surgeon. He's learned and improved so much, and yes, that includes looking people in the eye and acting polite and even empathetic even if it might sound a bit rehearsed. You didn’t see him working under the most amazing pressure in Malawi, and he coped magnificently. The locals were in awe; none of them gave a toss about the things like manners; they cared when he saved people’s lives. To them, he was just another foreigner, and from their perspective, we're all a bit odd, aren't we? I think it was a really good experience for him, people not instantly realising he was different. He’s so incredibly clever and gifted… Why wouldn't you give him credit for working out how to succeed as a surgeon?"

She sighs. "Because I keep waiting for the malpractice suit and the tabloid headlines. I know what happened at the National; Mycroft told me that he got close to wrecking his career just because of what he's like. Exposing himself to the sort of litigation that seems so common-place today, it’s positively terrifying, and you know how those often come with a competency hearing and those things are _public_. I don't want to see him go through something like that. If he had any realistic idea about what he is suited for, he'd never have even considered medical school. He's never been one to understand risk. You might be too close to see it, but that Africa sabbatical is such a good example."

She raises her hands in defence before he can repeat his protest over whether Malosa was a good thing or not. "The you might be a plural in this case, but I know it was his idea and that’s the point, isn’t it? He takes you off to the back of beyond, and you catch dengue fever. Anything could have happened. He never thinks things through, does he?"

John sniffs angrily. _How could she think the dengue was Sherlock's fault?_ "I could have caught the virus on a resort holiday in Cancun—it's practically everywhere. Malawi took Sherlock weeks of research, careful planning and thinking things through. You should have heard the pitch he gave me. You don’t seem to realise that maybe he’s not the person you think he is. The person you still think you see."

"Oh no? Then what normal person wanders through a run-down council estate on a wild goose chase for another underground station, and gets mugged? On his own, he’s always making mistakes like this. He got robbed at university; did you know that? Same story; he walked back from the lab late at night, turned left instead of right, ended up in a rough part of town and got jumped by a group of lads just after pub closing time. A bit of banter turned ugly when he didn’t know how to respond like any normal boy. On that occasion, he ended up with a broken collar bone and two black eyes. We tried to get the police involved, but William was so useless at giving a description that the police never even bothered to investigate. He got beat up at school so many times that I lost count because he spares no thought to how he should behave that he could get along with others. He’s just _like_ that, all the time. Head in the clouds, mind somewhere else, oblivious to everyone else. And now he’s making _me_ the villain. It's all my fault that I worry. _That's_ what's unfair, because all I’ve done is my best for him."

She tries to pour him more tea, but he plants his palm on his cup. He has already mouthed _'no, thanks_ ' once, but she ignored him. It seems so typically Violet not to listen to other people, and to assume she knows best what it is they need.

"Has he said anything about Christmas?"

Sherlock has said plenty, none of it repeatable in civilised company. "It's not my place to speak for him," John replies.

"Won't you talk to him, John, _please_? He'll listen to you if you tell him to be sensible. I think we have all been rather understanding of his whims," Violet concludes. "For him to suddenly decide to shun all our efforts to smooth things over is just a bit, well, ungrateful. But, I'm not angry with him; I'm used to what he's like. If he could just call Mummy back, then together we could set him straight, make things right again. It's important, John. Not just for me but for George, too. Neither of us is getting any younger. Life's too short to waste time being angry."

John pushes away his plate; he's not a fan of the cucumber sandwich still sitting on it. "Well, Sherlock certainly _is_ angry, and I don't think just telling him to stop is going to work. He's angry, and I think what he needs the most right now is that we take that seriously and give him time. Thank you for the tea," he adds, puts down his napkin and stands up to leave.

"But John––"

"I'll sort the bill on my way out," John tells her. She had invited him, of course, so the assumption would be that she'd handle the bill. It's just that John has a sudden and burning need to show her that she can't always dictate how everything should go.

"It's his birthday in seven days," Violet pleads as he is buttoning up his coat.

"I'm aware."

"I will call you so that we can arrange something."

John slips his wallet out of his coat pocket. "Violet… I'll ask him about that, but don't get your hopes up."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "O Little Town of Bethlehem"


	18. And Idol Forms Shall Perish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this 'verse, Sherlock's birthday is a bit later in January as it is in canon.

 

 _She is already two minutes late_.

Sherlock's patience runs out, and he knocks on the appointment room door after pushing his luggage against the wall next to a coat rack.

"Come on in," Doctor Pichler calls out from inside.

He pulls the door open with force excessive enough to bang the door handle against the corridor wall and strides in. He's too restless, too keyed up to sit down. Pichler follows him with his gaze, brows slightly raised, then peers briefly into the corridor, making note of the large rolling suitcase there.

"I'm rescinding permission for you to talk to John about _anything_ ," Sherlock announces, and paces to the window, fingers curling into fists, splaying open, curling into fists. Someone is walking a golden retriever past the building and he tries to focus on tracking the dog across the courtyard.

Doctor Pichler calmly rises from her chair and joins him by the window. "Has something happened?" she asks.

"I don't know what you discuss with him, and I don't want anyone talking to him about me. Not you, not my mother––"

"Take a deep breath, please, and answer the question." Her tone is a delicately balanced combination of an order and a gentle request.

"They had _tea_ ," Sherlock snaps, the third word squeezed through clenched teeth like a curse. "She's trying to convert John over to her side. All she does is breach my privacy, spout nonsense about––" he shakes his head, anger boiling over to the point where it eats up his words.

"What do you need?" Doctor Pichler asks simply, offering him the chance to calm himself down in the best way he knows how.

At that very moment, his phone begins vibrating in his jacket pocket. He picks it out, and when she sees the caller ID he, without thinking, flings the phone angrily across the room. It hits a ficus plant which lessens the impact. It clatters to the floor, glass now cracked, but it continues ringing. Awkwardly, the two of them listen, suspended in apprehension until the caller's— _Violet Holmes_ —patience runs out and the screen flickers back to standby mode.

Sherlock's chest is heaving but not from exertion; he knows he's close to hyperventilating. "She wants me to–––wants us to–––"

Doctor Pichler goes to pick up the phone from the floor and slips it into her trouser pocket. "Don't try to explain right now. We need to defuse this, first. Do what you need to do, but I will limit any attempts at self-harm or further property damage."

It's hard to let instinct take over, but she's right—he can't talk unless he finds a way to let go of some of the anger. The danger signs are there and having a meltdown will only waste this appointment. The anger alone wouldn't push him this close to the edge—it's the frustration and helplessness that do.

He drops down to the floor, kneeling in front of the wall beneath the tall window so he can lean his forehead against its cold surface. The striking sensation jolts him out of his head a little. He places his palms against the soft, luxurious, brocaded wallpaper, runs his fingertips along its raised shapes. There's a temptation to hum, but the tactile distraction might be enough.

He takes his time. Doctor Pichler grabs from a corner a smaller chair reserved for family members joining patients for a session, and places it close by—but not too close. "Can I ask some questions, now, or do you need more time?" she asks, when Sherlock opens his eyes again, blinking in the bright light from the window. "No, don't get up if you're comfortable."

He nods, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

"You mentioned at our last appointment that John had been invited for tea with your mother, and that you considered it a good idea."

"It should have got her off my back for a while." His tone sounds strange in his own ears. Distant, peculiar.

"What changed your perception of the event?"

"Nothing. Everything. I can't explain. I––" he swallows, wipes his sweaty palms on his knees. Thankfully, he has packed a second suit. "She wants to see me for my birthday at the end of the month."

"And you don't feel ready for that." It sounds more of an observation than a question. "It's your choice, Sherlock. You don't have to say yes, not at this point—or ever. The ball is in your court."

"I hate sports metaphors," he snarls between clenched teeth.

"How did John comment on their meeting?"

"He said she told him things, told him about what it was like when I was a child."

"Do you not trust John to put that information into perspective?"

"I do, it's just––" How does he even start to explain the gut-clenching fear that grips him when he thinks about everything that John has lately learned about it, what he's seen? What Sherlock has _let_ him see? He doesn't want John interacting with his mother, doesn't want even the slightest risk that she might learn of John's newfound knowledge and corrupt it, somehow.

He wants John only to be with him, to hear onlyhis side of the story. He's been on edge all day, and John telling him, over lunch, about his tea with Violet and her demands of a birthday celebration had just made it impossible to focus on anything in the afternoon before his appointment.

"Did John tell you he called me last week?"

Sherlock is surprised that she'd reveal this. Technically, John is not her patient, but if John hadn't wanted him to know about that call, then he would have assumed she'd consider it something to be held in confidence. "He did."

It had been a mortifying conversation. John apologised in advance, stating as the reason for his subterfuge that he simply wanted confirmation that there was nothing to worry about in Sherlock's behaviour. After the night when they'd talked about his therapy as a child, Sherlock had vacillated between feeling oddly proud of himself, and deeply regretful and paranoid about the consequences.

He's not angry at John, not really. Nor is he angry at Doctor Pichler. He just doesn't know what to do; doesn't understand why he can't be rational about the simple, harmless fact that his husband had tea with his mother and listened to her version of him. And why the thought of spending the weekend away from home, having to sort himself at some pointless conference fills him with dread. John had helped him pack after watching him flitting about the flat for hours last night without getting so much as a single pair of socks into the case open on the bedroom floor.

"John told me of your discussions and the fact that you seemed more comfortable not limiting your stimming in his presence. You've taken a huge step forward, Sherlock, and it's entirely normal to feel fearful and apprehensive of the consequences. As time passes, you will get more confident in that you made the right decision. I have no doubts about whether it is very good for you to share these things with John."

Sherlock climbs to his feet and makes his way to the sofa. He feels shaky, deflated. _John will think less of me…_

Doctor Pichler takes her usual seat.

"You worry that John would betray your trust, that he'd side with your mother in stripping you of the advocacy you have gained."

"When we go to Sussex, he's the only one I have on my side. My brother is useless. My father is…bloody _Switzerland_ , so neutral that he ends up being ignored by everyone. We've gone over this."

"You said that John and your mother discussed your childhood over this tea appointment. Have they done so before?"

"Constantly, when she's around. But, this time, what John told me she said… it was all ' _woe is me_ ' and ' _look what I had to suffer_ '. Usually, she just complains about me. Now, _she's_ a _victim_?! Not just of me choosing not to talk to her, but someone whose entire life was derailed by having a child who––" he trails out.

"I have not met your mother, so I cannot comment on the objective accuracy of her statements but Sherlock, even if her motivations for that conversation were questionable, the sentiment behind it may be very real. It might be a good question to ask whether her insistence on holding on to her outdated views is a way to protect herself from the consequences of things having changed when it comes to advice given to parents about children on the Spectrum. If she embraced all this new thinking, she would have to re-examine whether the things she put a lot of effort into were the right and beneficial things to do—things she was likely not being all that confident about because there was very little practical advice available."

 _The last thing I need is another apologist for her actions_. "Blessed be the ignorant, for they can do no wrong?"

She cracks a smile. "Not quite. What I am saying is that your mother may have felt conflicted by the advice she received, of the methods applied in the eighties, but lacking expertise herself, she didn't know what else to do."

"That doesn't explain why she still does all of it. Why she can't just leave me be, treat me like Mycroft? She's not responsible for us, anymore."

"Have you felt vengeful towards her?"

 _Easy_. "Very."

"What would it mean to you if she began regretting the choices she made regarding your upbringing—if she apologised to you for your experiences?"

"She'd never apologise, because she ' _did her very best for me_ '," he mocks, imitating her most indignant tone. "Her expressing regret now would, admittedly, provide some schadenfreude but it would change nothing."

"Let's assume you did manage to exact some of the revenge you have fantasized about. What would happen after?"

"I don't know. I've never considered it, or even the form such revenge would take. It's just an abstract impulse. What's the point? It wouldn't change anything in her thinking. Nothing will." He sighs. "I blame her for not changing her thinking, but as long as John helps me with things—things she thinks I shouldn't need help with—it only reinforces my mother's ideas. I don't remember or prioritise things right and now it's worse because _she's_ making me worse and it's a bloody self-fulfilling prophecy at the moment!" He throws his hands up in profound frustration.

They had once used, for a year, a service similar to the one Violet had condescendingly gifted to them. But that time it had been on Sherlock's initiative, and part of the motivation had been to help a friend's fledgling business into success. It established that John doesdo a lot of the things such services offer to take over, but does that stem more from Sherlock turfing it to him out of convenience, or from genuinely not being able to handle such matters? _'High-functioning_ ' is how he's been described by so-called experts in his teens. But, that high-functioning does not incorporate everything that a neurotypical person seems to take for granted. He may be higher-functioning in some areas than the general population but needs his phone to alert him to the fact that it's a Sunday and he has work the next morning.

"Well, we're not plotting revenge here together," Doctor Pichler says, "But I do hope we manage to put together a plan to move forward from this impasse you've reached with your mother. I cannot advise you on whether it would be beneficial for you to continue communicating with her in the long run, but I can say that unless you attempt at least once to provide her with your perspective, many of the negative emotions which are compromising your equilibrium right now will never be resolved. Avoidance is not resolution and expressing long-repressed anger may be very important for you. Her reaction will then determine if there are building blocks for a healthier relationship between two adults, or if it's best to call it a day."

"You said that we should find historical context for the way my mother behaves," Sherlock accuses.   

"Yes, I did," Doctor Pichler confirms.

"What if I'm not interested in context? What if I _want_ to remain angry at her, at least for a while? She is trying to get at me through John. She doesn't think I can be reasoned with, so she's pressuring John and my brother to _set me straight_. Her words, not mine. At least according to John."

"Your words or hers that you _'cannot be reasoned with_ '?"

"It's not my fault that when I talk to her, she always seems to be having a completely different conversation with a completely fictional version of me, and I get annoyed and never manage to say my piece."

She nods. "She is having a conversation with a different person than who you feel you are."

"I have not spent all that much time voluntarily in her presence as an adult so it's not entirely her fault she doesn't know me very well. What I hate is that she isn't even interested in changing that because she's too set in her assumptions and the way I was as a child. She wants to sweep who I have become under the rug, ignore it, and when I try to point out she's wrong, _'it's just William being so difficult again_ '," he mocks in falsetto. "She refuses to call me by my preferred name; it’s so symptomatic of her whole approach."

"You want her to take your anger seriously."

His fingers constrict around the decorative pillow he is now wielding on his lap like a shield. "For once, yes. If I behave, she adopts it as _her_ achievement. If I don't, at least not according to her standards, it's _my_ failure. I thought my career and achievements would bring equality but the fact that she barely notices or belittles all of that just underlines the way she underestimates me."

"What do you think would happen if you told her all this, flat-out?"

"She'd just dismiss it. She'd say that of _course_ she is proud, probably add in something condescending such as _'of her little boy_ ', and then change the subject before anything sank through her bloody Teflon surface." He crosses his arms. "Why do I even care what she thinks? I'm not dependent on her. I didn't _choose_ her, and she sure as hell wouldn't have chosen me. I should just leave the lot of them to their own devices."

"That's avoidance, not closure. Autonomy is what many ASD adults struggle with, though admittedly not usually if they are employed and married. But, they're not the only adults with such issues."

Sherlock looks up from fingering the pearl buttons sewn onto the pillow, his curiosity piqued. He places the item next to him on the sofa.

She crosses her legs and explains. "Parents and siblings know us better than others, which makes relationships with them exquisitely volatile. Many functional adults—ASD or otherwise—struggle find themselves stepping back into old roles when interacting with their family members. This stems for those relationships not having been updated, so to speak, to include aspects of the individuals' adult lives. Especially when people only assemble at Christmas or some other major holiday involving many traditional rituals and spending several days together, major clashes between expectations and reality can happen. People can easily revert to treating others as though it was still twenty years earlier. And, it's usually never down to just one half of a relationship that things have gone the way they have, that those relationships get stuck in the past. Did you enjoy your early adulthood?"

"There were some periods when things were… complicated, but I wasn’t miserable, if that’s what you mean. Yet, it was a huge relief to move away from home. I did that without telling my parents first, because my mother would have done everything in her power to prevent it. She was encouraging me to attend university, but I took a gap year instead."

"Did you share things with your parents during the gap year?"

"God, no. That was part of why it was good: that I was finally free from them running every bit of my life."

"Complicated, you said. Care to elaborate?"

He sighs. "It ended badly. The outcome probably confirmed all my mother's worst fears. I was rather surprised she was even willing to let me go to Cambridge, after."

"After what?" Doctor Pichler asks carefully.

 _No way around it, now_. "I was… living with someone but that relationship dissolved. We both used; Victor, heroin. Me, heroin and cocaine, mostly cocaine. In the end, I reached out to my brother because I didn't want to continue down that road. He helped me get into rehab, but of course our parents eventually found out and put me on what was practically a house arrest, save for dog-walking. That lasted for six months until they thought I could be trusted. They had all the leverage: I didn't have a flat, didn't have a job, didn't have any money. But then, thankfully, Cambridge happened. I'd got in to read chemistry straight out of Harrow, but deferred attendance. I re-applied and was accepted into the undergraduate medical programme."

"The rehab was successful, then."

"I knew what I wanted, and I knew I had to quit using drugs to get it."

"And what you wanted was to study medicine?"

Sherlock nods. "They didn't take it seriously until I got in, at which point they told me that it was going to be a disaster. They _still_ do." He is secretly glad to witness her slight surprise.

"After all these years and the success that you've enjoyed?"

"Find that hard to believe? I assure you that you wouldn't, if you'd met them. If my mother was sitting here instead of me, you'd probably think I faked my Cambridge diploma."

Perhaps his tone is so bitter that she decides to divert the discussion. "Are you traveling somewhere today? I noticed the luggage."

Sherlock lets his head loll back against the sofa, relishing the faint cracks from the vertebra as air escapes from the synovial spaces. "Conference. Birmingham. _Not keen_." It's now Thursday, and the conference will last for three days.

"Are you sure that is good idea right now?"

Her question surprises him. Shouldn't she think it's a nice change of scenery or something similarly pedestrian?

"How do you feel about traveling alone today?" She asks.

He looks at the aquarium. "The thought doesn't entice." It's an understatement. He knows that a part of the reason for his disastrous attempts at packing are connected to his nervousness about having to manage alone. He's been to dozens and dozens of these things, but something about this particular one fills him with dread. He doesn't want to go on the train, to negotiate his way around unfamiliar stations. Doesn't want to be walking alone. Doesn't want to rack his brain tying to work out how to interact with people. It's taxing at the best of times, and now…

"Sherlock, I'm going to be frank with you. I've seen you anxious, but never have I seen you lose your temper like today. It's been hard for me to decide whether to recommend a medical leave of absence at work but right now, I would certainly urge you to consider withdrawing from the conference and spending a few days at home."

His head snaps up. "I've _never_ cancelled on short notice."

"Would you begrudge a colleague for doing so because they were ill or in an accident or had a family emergency?"

"Of course not. It's just a conference."

"Then don't begrudge yourself for taking time off when you're going through something that strains your emotional reserves. In your current state of mind, would you claim that you would be able to do your best with clinical work?"

He grunts something indecipherable.

"Come again?"

Of _course_ she'd demand he says it out loud. "No. I wouldn't be _unsafe_ _––_ " He trails out. He's convinced John wouldn't have been an _unsafe_ doctor when he was recovering from his shoulder injury, but his mood and concentration issues and general anger towards everything and everyone certainly wouldn't have made him a very pleasant doctor, either. He would have been more prone to cutting corners, for taking the easy way out, for not being as empathetic as Sherlock knows John can be and what makes him great with anxious and frightened patients. No, John wouldn't have been able to give his best.

"Not unsafe to patients, although that is a slippery slope of an argument. Would you be safe for _your career_ , do you think?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"One thing which John was concerned about when he initially called me to book your first appointment was related to work. He says you had begun to get into conflicts again with staff and colleagues. When we're stretched thin, our patience can diminish, and I wouldn't want that to cause damage to the results of all the hard work you have put in regarding your interpersonal relationships at work."

Sherlock scoffs. "You're overreacting. And so is John."

"It's hard to admit that things are not alright, isn't it? Hard to shift from the physician's chair from the patient's, when it's not about a very physical, visible injury? Sometimes we need to take time out _before_ things get worse. Isn't it always best to prevent illnesses and injuries before they happen?"

She asks such obvious questions, but Sherlock has learned not to be irritated by them because they are often a logical bridge to her actual point. "How did you feel about this conference before John met with your mother?" she asks, catching him off guard.

He had tried not to think about it. _It's just a bloody conference_. He finds traveling without John taxing—he knows what to do, having attended such things so many times, but he finds it a huge relief when John takes over planning and execution which allows Sherlock to focus fully on coping with the stress and sensory strain of the unfamiliar, noisy and uncomfortable aspects of travel. He's not been on the Tube—or any sort of train—since the mugging. "Uneasy," he admits. There's no point in lying to Doctor Pichler, even if he constantly feels a compulsion to conceal things from her, things that make him upset or embarrassed. “But it comes with the territory; conference speaking is just one more thing that needs to happen if my career and the shunt design is to progress. So, I agreed to give a paper.”

“What do you dislike about the idea now?”

“Travel, crowds, people I don’t know, having to be _pleasant_ _._ It’s all just too much.”

"Your baseline anxiety level is likely raised by the event. It didn't take much extra to push it to intolerable levels since you were already…we might say wound tightafter Christmas. Off the top of your head: what would want to do right now? What would you want the most, if no demands were placed by the calendar?

"I want to crawl into a hole somewhere and hide." There, the truth is out there, blurted without thought. He braces himself for her reaction…but little changes in her expression. It seems that he is the one more surprised by this admission.

"Could you think of a slightly less abstract and more achievable version?"

"I'd just…be at home. With John," he adds. He finds John's presence in the flat calming even if they're not interacting.

"Then that is precisely what you should do. The conference would have liberated you from work at King's for three days, would it not?"

"Yes."

"Take those three days and make the most out of your time. Not by doing research or other kind of work, but by listening to yourself and what you need right now. A surgeon's lifestyle does not often allow for such a thing, especially if they have children, but sometimes it's just a matter of deciding. Don't go to work, don't push yourself to decide what to do about your family, don't worry about the fact that you missed a conference. Dedicate three days to returning your baseline to where it belongs."

Three days off sounds…tolerable, assuming he could wrap his head around that fact that it's effectively a psychiatrist putting him on sick leave. He can't quite see the point. "What, then?"

"I will see you on Sunday afternoon, and during that appointment we decide whether you need more time off. And––" she raises a hand to halt his protest "––if that is my recommendation, I insist that we involve the King's Occupational Health team."

"Out of the question."

"We're not to discuss that tonight," she says sternly. "There is every reason to think that a bit of peace and quiet at home will let you gain perspective and to see the way forward with your family."

Sherlock bites his lip. Sitting around at home will hardly solve the fact that he's nervous about such things as going on a bloody train. He wants to talk about the mugging, and desperately _doesn't_ want to talk about it. He's mortified by that fact that such a pedestrian feedback loop could have been produced in his brain and that he can't just reason his way out of it.

_John couldn't, either, but he went to war, for heaven's sake! I just went and got mugged in Lisson Grove._

"You don't look convinced," she voices what must be clear from his expression. "Can you tell me what it is that you resist about the suggestion to skip the conference?"

"We're wasting time talking about my mother. We're wasting time that could be spent fixing whatever it is that needs fixing so that I could not get bothered by things that shouldn't bother me." He draws a deep breath. "While we have focused on my family, the reason I couldn't tolerate their company this Christmas and why certain practical aspects of the conference appear…daunting, hasn't been explored yet."

_Why is everything so difficult?_

"A catalyst for a crisis does not always equate a main reason for it, but I think I know the event to which you refer. I agree: what happened to you right before Christmas is something we have not yet extensively touched upon. We're only human, Sherlock, and conversing even within the structured framework of therapy is an organic thing that sometimes chooses its own direction. The issues with your family have been acute on your mind, and the most pressing issues must be addressed first. It's all connected, as I think we have established. To fix one thing, perhaps another thing needs to be explored. Mental health is not a list of boxes to tick or a single path to stay on or veer from."

She takes Sherlock's phone out of her pocket and offers it to him. "Do you feel that the mugging is something we should discuss tonight?"

Upon receiving the phone, he presses the home button and the locked screen shows him that their appointment time is nearly over.

Doctor Pichler glances at the wall clock. "We can continue over our allocated time if we need to. My next appointment is an hour away. I understand your frustration, and if you so wish we can start work right away on that topic." There is challenge in her tone. A dare.

"My train leaves from Euston station in twenty minutes," Sherlock offers feebly.

Her smile is sympathetic. "We both know that making that journey in time at this hour is impossible. It seems that your hesitation has made the decision for you. So, a second decision remains: to continue today, or to continue on Sunday?"

The realisation sinks in proper: he gets to go home. He gets to go home, not talk to anyone but John. "Shouldn't you be preaching against avoiding uncomfortable situations? I shouldn't be giving in to this… _thing_ , should I?"

"Avoidance and respecting the limits of our resilience are two different things. When addressing an acute stress reaction to a traumatising event, it's not advisable to plunge the patient, head-first, into what clearly upsets them—it can make matters worse."

"Is that what we're calling this, then?" Sherlock says, his tone biting. "By some diagnosis number?"

"I've explained before that these are the tools of my trade, Sherlock. There are recognised, recommended approaches to each type of psychiatric issue. You must see in your practice how each brain tumour, each spinal issue is different, yet there are guidelines and generally agreed-upon principles how to address different types of them. So yes, if you read my notes you would find the diagnoses _'_ _F43.0: Acute stress reaction_ ' as you would ' _F84.0: Autism Spectrum disorder_ '. I have also used the auxiliary Z-category code of ' _Z63.8: Other specified problems related to primary support group_ '. Would you like to contest these?"

They've veered off topic, and it's his fault. _This is pointless_. It's wrong to ask if he _wants_ to talk about the mugging—no, absolutely not, but he recognises that these appointments may have value in putting that past him. But, his mood isn't that much improved from the time he walked into the appointment, and everything right nowfeels like a boulder he needs to push uphill.

He unlocks his phone and types up a quick text asking John where he currently is. Then, he regards Doctor Pichler pointedly. "We'll continue on Sunday."

Until he climbs to his feet, he doesn't realise how tired he is. Forgoing the conference doesn't feel like a weight has been lifted, but he's willing to admit the thought of going home is a relief.

John replies to his text: _'Stuck in traffic, Wellington Arch_ '.

Sherlock's thumbs spring to life again on the keyboard. _'Can you come get me from Harley Street?_ '

John's reply is just a thumb pointing upwards, though he knows Sherlock detests emoji. Perhaps the traffic had cleared, and he now needs to drive.

Doctor Pichler has risen and walked to her desk to peruse her appointment book. Instead of an electronic version, she uses a heavy, leather-bound paper one with plentiful post-its slapped onto its pages. "Four in the afternoon alright?"

Sherlock flicks a dismissive wrist. "You know as well as I do that I don't have other plans."

She walks him not to the appointment room door but outside, to stand on the kerb.

"John is picking me up," he says.

"Good. Take him someplace nice for dinner, perhaps?"

Sherlock doesn't want to go out. He wants to go home, curl under a throw on the sitting room sofa. He has no appetite. Thankfully, Harley Street is not one of the area's thoroughfares, so John has no trouble pulling up by the building.

Doctor Pichler lifts her hand in greeting to them both before she hurries back inside the building. John climbs out of the driver's seat to help Sherlock with his bag. "I thought you'd be on the train by now. I hope the renovations at Euston are done; traffic's a mess there."

Sherlock clears his throat nervously as he watches John close the trunk. "We're not going to the station."

John frowns, chin jutting forward in surprise as he walks up to Sherlock on the kerb instead of getting back in the car. "What happened to the EANN conference?"

He probably notices Sherlock's fidgeting fingers and the fact that he isn't looking at John. His hand reaches forward to take Sherlock's, but he refrains, perhaps remembering the conversation they'd had about not interfering with Sherlock's habits of defusing his nervous energy.

"Not going," Sherlock says simply. John may deduce of that what he will.

"So I get you all to myself for the weekend?" John asks hopefully, but the warm humour in his voice drains out by the end of the sentence as he bends slightly forward to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's expression. "You're not getting sick, are you? Half the people in my afternoon meeting were sneezing so winter flu's definitely here."

Sherlock shakes his head. He wants to get in the car and not discuss this further. He's not sure what John reads on his features when he lifts his chin and meetshis husband's gaze. "Thank you for coming to get me," he offers matter-of-factly. He must sound quite dismissive and resigned.

"You came to Afghanistan, love, to get me home, so don't mention it. Come here," John says, and steps closer to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock wraps his own tightly around John's neck, burying his nose in the familiar warmth and scent and not caring about doing this on the street. After a moment's peace of closing his eyes, he steps back and gets in the car.

"Angelo's?" he suggests when John has joined him. The small, intimate, quiet Italian restaurant has become both their favourite. It's the only place he thinks he could put up with right now besides home.

"Starving," John replies and fastens his seatbelt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Christmas carol "A Great And Mighty Wonder".


	19. Let's Take the Road Before Us

  
The next morning, John takes care in being quiet as he dresses himself and leaves the house. Sherlock had gone out like a light after ten in the evening—which is unprecedented—and John wanted him to get his rest. The latest session with Joanna Pichler seems to have wrung him out, and John is glad of his partner's decision to forgo the EANN Conference where Sherlock had been due to give a presentation and participate in a panel or two. John loves watching him in the latter—his acerbic wit and vast knowledge of his speciality make for excellent entertainment for the audience even if the other panellists tend to leave the room quite disgruntled afterwards.

Their meal at Angelo's last night had been quiet. John was tired, too, after a long workday, and silences with Sherlock are never awkward or laden with expectation the same way that they are with others. They can be awkward if John is expecting him to respond to something he has asked, but last night he had known better than to try to prompt Sherlock to tell him what had made him decide to stay at home. Sherlock had not wanted any pudding at the restaurant; John should have guessed after seeing him push around his salmon around the plate. They walked home, during which Sherlock brooded and John enjoyed the fresh air. After haunting the kitchen aimlessly while John made tea, Sherlock drunk only half his own mug before taking a long bath. John expected his husband to eventually join him in the sitting room for some TV but after growing tired of waiting he'd gone to the bedroom only to find him fast asleep.

It's obvious that something is wrong. Why else would Sherlock have changed his plans? The only thing John knows is that he has his next appointment with Doctor Pichler is as soon as Sunday. Was not going to Birmingham the psychiatrist's idea or Sherlock's? His mood seems to be shifting constantly, his patience is still non-existent, and even just a mention of Violet seems to be akin to nails on a blackboard.

At lunch, John debates putting in a call to Doctor Pichler to ask what's going on but decides against it. Sherlock hadn't reacted well to the last time he'd admitted to talking to the psychiatrist and had seemed severely worked up after hearing about John's conversation with his mother, even if he had been initially supportive of that meeting.

All this converges in John having no idea what to expect when he gets home on Friday afternoon. To his great surprise, he finds Sherlock perched on the backrest of an armchair in the sitting room, watching a game show while eating Chinese straight out of a carton. He's wearing his dressing gown, an old pair of black button-fly jeans and one of John's RAMC T-shirts—one John remembers chucking on top of the laundry pile yesterday. Sherlock is also barefoot and he clearly hasn't gone through his morning routine of styling his curls.

"John!" he acknowledges cheerfully, craning his neck towards the door as John walks in and hangs up his coat. "Come see these idiots!" he exclaims and points a chopstick at the screen. "That guy needed two lifelines to ascertain that the pyramids of Giza are in Egypt. The older female contestant has no idea what human kidneys do!"

"Scandalous, isn't it," John smiles. "I should send you to one of those shows, even if you'd get eliminated the moment they asked about sports or entertainment."

Sherlock shrugs and nimbly delivers a cashew nut into his mouth. "Not my fault they have to tailor their question categories for the tastes of the brainless masses."

"Oi! Some of us like our sports."

Sherlock puts down the takeaway carton and licks sauce off his upper lip. "An unfortunate character flaw in what otherwise approaches perfection."

John grins as he kicks off his shoes and removes his suit jacket. He then takes over the entire sofa, giving the pillow under his head a punch so that it would raise his head a bit higher. "I should have known it would be dangerous, letting you get hooked to crap telly. You're already sounding dreadfully sentimental."

He gets a pillow thrown at him which does nothing to wipe off his grin—this is the best mood in which he's seen Sherlock in weeks. Whatever Joanna Pichler had done with him seems to have taken effect overnight.

"Why don't you join me here, Mister Crap Telly. I might have some better entertainment available," John suggests, lacing his words with a bit of innuendo.

Sherlock snatches the remote from the coffee table and changes the channel to some nature program about rain forests. "I can't abide listening to those idiots for a moment more."

"Good decision," John confirms. He turns onto his side, presses himself against the backrest and opens his arms. Sherlock arranges himself alongside as the small spoon, the hem of his dressing gown artfully cascading towards the floor. John hugs him close to prevent him from falling off the relatively narrow sofa and shoves a leg between the man's ankles to anchor him in place.

"Any weekend plans, then?" John asks the halo of curls tickling his nose.

"Apart from seeing Pichler on Sunday afternoon, no. I was advised not to make any."

John is tempted to pick apart the bitter, cryptic statement—and to ask about the appointment last night—but, if he takes up that subject, the other thing that tempts him right now won't happen, because Sherlock will likely just clam up and get sulky again. So, instead John pushes away some curls so that he can kiss the pale, long neck in front of him. His upper hand slides along Sherlock's hip, then slips into the folds of his dressing gown, finally settling on the sliver of lower stomach left bare by the borrowed T-shirt that is a bit short for its current wearer. When he finds and liberates the topmost jeans button just underneath the hem of the ratty old shirt, Sherlock presses his bottom tighter against his groin and reaches a hand to cup his head from the back, turning his own so that they can share a kiss that takes its time, explores, offers just enough of tongue to be an arousing promise.

"I want to find you like this more often," John tells his husband. "Relaxed and ready." The confidence in his statement has been borne out of what his hand has just made contact with; Sherlock is well on his way to getting hard.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John teases—he already knows the answer, of course, and it's providing ample inspiration for his own cock.

"Meretricious for an evening at home," comes the answer.

When John starts pushing the jeans out of the way for better access, Sherlock enthusiastically obliges by lifting his hips. He's achingly hard, now, foreskin having retracted back to reveal a glistening glans. John thinks his husband's erections are like the man himself: quick to emerge and fickle. Sherlock gasps when John wraps his fingers around the middle of his shaft and strokes a thumb tip across the fraenulum. John pulls his hand out of the jeans and unceremoniously spits in it before going for just the sort of a half-firm, slow stroke Sherlock prefers at this point. Too much friction will be an instant turn-off, but the same will happen if he's too gentle and too monotonous in his ministrations. It's a delicate balance he has to reach, and at no point can he afford just to focus on himself when they're having sex, lest he misses a sign that Sherlock needs something else than what he's getting. He often aims to get Sherlock off before they might go for penetration; that way, he's not too sensitive so that the wrong thing could suddenly stall his arousal and cause the lovemaking to come to a very sudden and jarring halt. Post-climax, Sherlock seems to find it easier to relax within their intimacy since he's not trying to balance the intense sensory storm of an incoming orgasm. On the rarer occasion when he wants to be the penetrating party, that role seems to help with letting go and avoiding thinking too much. John rarely has no objections to such a setup, but mostly Sherlock seems to want him to set the pace and decide what to do.

Right now, though he's also urgently aroused, what John wants most is to watch Sherlock enjoying himself. It's been a rare sight lately, and John wants to relish every second. Sherlock has now flushed up to his neck, his breathing has become heavy and deep, and he makes the occasional strained, almost painful noise as John skirts the outer limits of his tolerance. John can tell when he starts getting close and manages to snatch two Phoenix Palace napkins just in time to make sure Sherlock's dressing gown isn't instantly destined for the laundry pile. He comes with half a grunt, half a shout of John's name, eyes tightly squeezed shut. The climax leaves his chest heaving, and his hand slips from the sofa to hang listlessly towards the floor for a moment before he starts composing himself and turns around to face John.

"I wish we could just do this all weekend," John comments and kisses his cheek.

"Your hand would get tired," Sherlock's languid baritone replies. John can't tell if he's being his typical, too-literal self, or joking, and he doesn't care. Sherlock's gaze lacks its usual piercing quality; he's simply watching John with barely contained fondness.

"We _could_ spend the weekend in bed, since she thinks I've been rendered useless," Sherlock complains.

"Who? Violet?

"No. Did you know that the Pret A Manger at the corner of Melcombe delivers if you ask nicely and promise them a twenty-pound tip?"

" _You_ asked nicely?"

"Caffeine, John! Needs must."

John shakes his head in fond disbelief, tempted to give in to Sherlock's attempt at changing the subject about Violet and to just enjoy the proximity, but he can't let an opening like that go to waste. "You're not useless, love. Why would you think that?"

He can see tension setting back into the lines of Sherlock's shoulders, sees his expression harden. "She's threatening me."

"Who? Violet?"

" _No_. Pichler," Sherlock scoffs. "With a medical leave of absence, which is just preposterous. She says she'll decide on Sunday." Sherlock turns around again, presumably to avoid eye contact.

John can sense an attempt to recruit backup for the opinion that the psychiatrist is overreacting, but he can't make that judgement call without knowing what has been discussed at the appointments.

Perhaps what he'd mistaken for an improvement in Sherlock's mood is rebellious petulance, instead.

"I know you probably don't want to talk about this, but can I say something? About Violet?" John asks.

"If you must."

"I'm fine acting as a buffer between the two of you for now if that's what you need. That's fine. But I have to say I'm having a hard time sympathising with her after what you recently told me. I don't know how you want me to act towards her, but if it is polite, well, that's getting difficult."

"I can't decide for you," Sherlock mutters. "It's your business alone what you think of her."

"No, it's not. I can't and I won't side with her right now, because that'd be siding against you." He slides his palm between Sherlock's shoulder blades on top of his dressing gown. "We have to decide what to do about your birthday, though. She wants to see you and George does, too."

"I don't want to see her, but Pichler thinks I can't avoid it forever."

John's anxiety ratchets up because he hears the rising anger in Sherlock's voice and fears that this conversation may soon be over. "Give it the weekend, hm? Talk to Pichler on Sunday. I will support whatever you decide to do. Look, I know Violet's pretty set in her ways and I'm only beginning to realise all the small stuff that she does that must get to you. But, it seems like a shame if this is it—if you decide to not have her in our lives because that probably then extends to George, too. They're a package deal, those two."

Sherlock scoffs. "It's not as though she's physically preventing him from getting in touch. He's always left it to her to organise things. It's all ritual and habit—' _what would the neighbours think if my boys didn't come home for Christmas_ ,'" he mocks, but his parody lacks its usual venom. He sounds resigned, instead—as though he's made up his mind.

"She loves you," John says. "Even if that takes some weird forms."

"Not so sure about that," Sherlock mutters. "She needs me to elevate herself to sainthood. Whether she ever cared about my opinions or thoughts or feelings is a whole different matter."

"She's still your mum."

Sherlock places his palm on John's chest, leans away a little to give him an indignant glare. "What if I said that about your father? Would that instantly redeem him? What worth does some culturally dictated parental role actually have? She didn't get to choose her offspring, and I sure as hell didn't get to choose her."

"What does Joanna think? Does she think she should just push Violet out of your life?"

"She has not volunteered direct advice regarding the matter. She certainly thinks I should try to talk to her. As though she'd ever listen."

"There's stuff I sort of wish I'd said to my dad. I probably never would have had the courage to do so, but a part of me still wishes he'd realised what it was like for me and Harry when he still lived with us. I wish I could have told Mum to just get out of that marriage, to build a life for herself. I just let things be, because nothing good would probably have come out of opening my mouth. I just sometimes wish I'd done it for _me_ , you know." John pauses before adding: "I'm sorry Violet's upsetting you so much right now. I wish I'd realised sooner what it's like with her."

Sherlock is silent for a moment before admitting: "It's not just her. The conference."

When Sherlock's sentences become hard-to-decipher, apropos-of-nothing stumps, John knows he's getting close to revealing something that causes him anxiety. "What about the conference?"

"You're using my current hormonal state to pry into things." Sherlock's tone isn't as disapproving as John would have feared.

Sherlock tentatively continues: "I didn't want to go."

"I don't want to go to half of those things. They always swallow up the whole damned weekend."

"I didn't _want_ to go," Sherlock repeats, and that one word seems to be heavily laden with meaning he probably hopes John will decipher without him having to explain further. Perhaps his confounded silence lasts too long, because Sherlock eventually continues: "After Afghanistan, you didn't _want_ to drive."

Like a light coming on, things now begin to make sense to John. "I should have realised––"

"It's _idiotic_."

"You were kind of rattled all Christmas. I thought it had passed, though."

"It should have."

"There's no 'should', Sherlock. I do get it—I thought things _should_ have passed by thetime we flew home from Afghanistan. If the mugging is what is coming up in your sessions, then that's good. I wish I'd been smart enough to start with Doctor Hooper ages before I finally did."

"We haven't even addressed all that in the appointments yet. We're wasting time."

"Do you think I plunged right into it with Molly? I wasted a lot of time being convinced everything had gone to shit and that she wasn't going to be of any use. There was a lot of other stuff connected to Afghanistan that needed to be sorted; the PTSD turned out to be just one part of the whole mess."

"It doesn't bother you to call it PTSD?"

"That's what it is, regardless of whether I like the term or not. I still get jumpy sometimes and there are nightmares, but Molly helped. It's just a bit of life lived, now."

"It's not analogous. You were injured in a terrorist attack in a country at war. I was just…"

"Not a competition, Sherlock. If it bothers you, it bothers you. One thing I wasted a lot of time with was feeling sorry for myself, for hating myself that it all happened to me, that I let it get to me. But, it doesn't work like that. Nobody choose to let things get to them, do they? Still, I thought that there was something wrong with me compared to others who served in Afghanistan."

"I––I didn't––" Sherlock trails out, as though he'd been about to argue, to reveal something.

John hums inquisitively into his unruly mop of curls, hooks his leg around both of Sherlock's. "Took me a long time to stop thinking I should have done more. I was shot, and bleeding, and I still blamed myself for not being able to drag other people to safety. _That's_ the definition of stupid, Sherlock, not the fact that you were attacked on the street and can't just shrug that off."

The news has now replaced the nature documentary on TV and they both get caught up watching a report on the winter flu causing chaos at A&E departments. King's hasn't been too badly affected—at least not yet. It's  a problem for hospitals whose bed wards tend to be filled to the brim to throughout the year; an epidemic will stretch those resources to a breaking point.

"Got any food left?" John asks when the report ends.

"Egg rolls and some chicken-and-vegetable stir-fry in the fridge."

John climbs over him to go eat, and Sherlock flops onto his back to take over the whole sofa. He channel-surfs for some time before turning the TV off, walking right over the coffee table, then flouncing off to the bedroom, dressing gown flapping in his wake.

John follows him to strip off his now thoroughly crumpled dress shirt and trousers.

Sherlock watches him from the unmade bed he has star-fished across.

John opens a drawer to take out a T-shirt.

"Don't bother," Sherlock comments dryly. "I'll just take it off you."

John leans a hip on the dresser, crosses his arms and raises a sly brow. "This is the weekend plan, then, after all? You, me, no clothes?"

"I miss our debauched weekends from when we had just got together."

Sherlock is a here-and-now kind of person, so this admission is a surprise to John. Like any freshly minted couple, once they began having sex it took over a lot of their free time at home during the first months. For Sherlock, their bed seemed to be a playground of endless possibilities—as though he was making up for lost time. But, after years of being together, they've now slipped into a routine of scheduling chores and leftover paperwork to weekends. Sherlock sits with his laptop, and John on occasion even goes to King's on Saturdays to catch up. Work is slowly taking over all their time, even if it has felt more tolerable after Africa. Occasional holiday trips have become a substitute for the free time they should be enjoying on a more regular basis. Since Sherlock wasn't going to be home this weekend, John had planned a mammoth session of bureaucratic catch-up, but none of it is actually due on Monday.

"Fuck it," he says and strips off his pants with a grin.

"No, I was hoping you'd fuck _me_ ," comes a haughty reply.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

On Sunday, they walk to Sherlock's appointment at Harley Street, after which John heads to the Waitrose on Cramer Street.

Once in his usual seat in the appointment room, Sherlock feels antsy. He wants to prove that he's done precisely as suggested: taken three days for himself, to be spent with John. Doctor Pichler may have been right: the anxiety he'd felt on Thursday evening has evaporated. Apart from the conversation with John on Friday, he hasn't thought much of the things that have been bothering him. He still doesn't quite understand how pushing them away for several days could do more than buy him time. Nothing is resolved, nothing is _fixed_ , and he finds it hard to trust the process.

"How was your weeken––" Doctor Pichler starts.

Without letting her finish, Sherlock launches into the speech he'd rehearsed in his head on the way in. "I've spent three days doing absolutely nothing of worth. I don't feel anxious, I don't feel aversive to work, and I am certain I can function perfectly in my duties. I'm also ready to discuss anything and everything required to move forward."

"Good. I'm glad. Did you worry about what recommendation I'd give for tomorrow?"

"You may call it a recommendation, but you know as well as I do that all you needed to do was involve John and the wheels would be turning to effectively forceme to take time off."

"You said you were no longer comfortable about my conversing with John about your situation. I would not betray your trust."

"About that, I––" his determination stumbles on itself at the mention of John. What his husband said two days ago about his own PTSD has made Sherlock feel less apprehensive about discussing similar matters. John knows what he's going through, since he's been through much worse. "You may talk to John if or when it appears necessary."

She nods. "Good. I will still check in with you first, if a situation like that arises. Now, as I recall you have expressed frustration over the focus of our past sessions, so I thought today we might explore what happened in December. You explained that you were mugged here in London just before Christmas, and that you found your reaction to this confounding."

"I know I can function in a crisis but suddenly, all of those abilities just went up in the air." He flicks open his closed fist to emphasise his point.

"Would you say that your functionality in a crisis extends beyond situations you encounter as part of your medical work?"

"Yes. John has complimented me on my conduct in Afghanistan and when he fell ill with Dengue."

"Still, those situations allowed you to fall back on your professional role."

"I'm not some hysteric."

"Becoming the victim of a violent crime would rob anyone of a sense of equilibrium and personal safety. Anyone could be affected beyond the immediate aftermath, and many victims even develop a short-term stress reaction. They are not hysterics."

_Pointless psychiatric semantics._

"Has the mugging or recalling it afterwards reminded you of something else? Brought back memories, perhaps?"

He bites his lip. "Not that, well, maybe a bit, but it was more _later_." He's rambling, and it sounds idiotic, so he snaps his mouth shut. He feels restless again, wanting to leave, wanting to shove closed the proverbial door the psychiatrist is trying to open. He hates it, absolutely loathes it, how such a spike of anxiety can dissolve his verbal abilities. It only seems to do it in connection to old, useless things. He feels defensive and ill-equipped to deflect her inquiries.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembers vividly that moment on the heath when fragments of memories had flooded in he'd been momentarily confused about where and _when_ he even was. He knows he's prone to dissociation when highly anxious or panicked, but he'd been pushed into that particular storm of recollections so suddenly and so violently that he'd still been shaking when John found him upstairs.

"Can you describe how you felt during and after the attack?"

"Paralysed. Mute. Not really there. The latter continued for some time. _Disconnected_."

"Research has shown that neuroatypical individuals may be more prone than average for derealisation and depersonalisation in traumatic events. There is great individual variation, but those terms seem to fit your description. It's a defence mechanism: a person removes themselves from an upsetting situation."

"I've been in _upsetting situations_ before without dissociating."

"Have you had flashbacks to it? Sudden, overwhelming instances of unwanted recollections?"

"I know what a flashback is."

"Are they just about the mugging, or are there other events connected to it?"

"That's the part I don't understand: why it would make me remember certain very old things. And why it has made it hard to deal with my mother."

"Perhaps this mugging was more similar to some prior experiences than you realise or care to admit—ones which happened when you lacked the defensive capabilities of an adult. The mugging happened just as you had built your confidence to new heights, both in terms of your career and your marriage. That confidence was still new and brittle, and the damage it seems to have taken from the mugging I suspect made you exceptionally vulnerable to being affected by your parents' behaviour this Christmas. It just may have been the perfect storm brewing."

Sherlock shrugs, then lets his shoulders hunch down. What she's saying makes sense but it all makes him sound like… it's hard to even pick a word. _Like someone who tries, in vain, to do something right, only to be pushed down every time. Someone who doesn't deserve success_.

There are no right words for what and who he is, except for ones he doesn't care for. Diagnoses. Calumny.

"Were you bullied?" Doctor Pichler suddenly asks. "Let's for a moment put aside your mother's behaviour, though some features of it might also fit the bill. Were you bullied by other individuals as a child, as an adolescent, or as an adult, or during several of these life stages?"

Somehow, that question causes Sherlock to lose most of his remaining sense of calm and composure. "Why? Why would you make such an assumption?" He hates how defensive his tone is.

She leans against the backrest of her chair, adopts a more appraising and distant expression. "There are major long-term effects to bullying, regardless of whether the subject is neurotypical or not. The first are mood issues and anxiety. The second is low self-esteem. This is especially prevalent if bullying lasts a long time. After being bullied, people tend to be wary of others, get easily discouraged from interaction, be questioning of the motives of others, experience loneliness, feel isolated and misunderstood. They may constantly question their self-worth, the appropriateness of their behaviour, their social skills and their likability as they try to make sense of why the bullying happened to them."

"I know why it happened," Sherlock scoffs. "And my mother would be the first to tell you it was my own fault for failing to heed her advice."

"How did she advise you to deal with these bullies?"

"Keep your mouth shut, pretend you're normal, _be pleasant_. Ignore them, turn the other cheek."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?!"

"No, that's not very good advice. Especially since it signals that it is your issue to resolve instead of the adults in your life protecting you and ensuring that it stops. Bullying is not acceptable behaviour towards any child."

Sherlock shrugs. "Not all children get bullied. Isn't it logical that those who do would start asking why they were picked? To start wondering if there's something in their behaviour that could be altered to avoid further incidents. When I had to deal with it as an adult, I became more vicious than those who sought to take me down. It's better to be feared than pitied." There's a hint of pride in his voice.

"How did that work out for you?"

"Patients and staff complained. Colleagues didn't like me back then—many still don't. But, it was better than the alternative."

"Judging by what I have heard from you and John you have, in the past few years, tried a very different tack, and it has produced results that have made you more comfortable, liked, and less stressed. Good, constructive results with longevity."

"It's hard work and I'm not sure if it's worth it, if the end result is the same. No matter how well I do, my mother thinks I'm destined for failure and ridicule."

"Try to separate your disappointment with your mother from all that you have achieved at work. Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater because you feel frustrated with her."

Sherlock is willing to admit Doctor Pichler is right when it comes to his work. It has been hard and nerve-racking to try to be less aggressively defensive, and he has needed a lot of help especially from John but he has never enjoyed his work as much as he now does. He can breathe easier.

"Many who are bullied, ASD and otherwise, eventually begin to believe it was deserved, that some of the aspects of their personalities targeted by the bullies are undesirable. Low self-esteem ties intimately to depression and social anxiety, and it can take years and a lot of work to start constructing a confidence that was never there before or that needs to be rebuilt. I would consider the advice you relayed from your mother as profoundly ableist thinking."

Of course Sherlock had believed his mother when she told him he should just try harder and the bullying would stop. He learned to think of the way the other children treated him as punishment for his failures.

She continues. "In those of my patients who are on the Spectrum, a deep-seated social anxiety which continues in adulthood is very common, and many simply avoid other people to protect themselves from more bad experiences. That's not a symptom of autism—it's symptomatic of mistreatment autistic individuals have suffered. I see many of these traits in you."

Sherlock remains silent, expecting her to steer the conversation. As long as he doesn't say anything, he holds at least a bit of the power in this room.

"In trying to protect the progress you've made and the good developments in your life, it's logical that you'd react very strongly to anything that threatens it. The fact that it he mugging may have resembled a physical altercation with bullies could be significant in this context."

Sherlock does not reply.

"Bullying breeds a loss of trust, paranoia and suspicion about people's motives, especially if bullying has involved what is something referred to as 'mate crime'—peers pretending to be an autistic person's friend and then treating them badly. After being betrayed like that, I don't find it surprising that an individual would be sceptical that anyone reallywants to be their friend or partner, to work with them or spend time with them. I find ASD individuals very susceptible to this because they may have had trouble recognising boundaries, reading between the lines and deciphering behaviour, especially if that behaviour is socially deceptive. When those on the Spectrum realise that they have been conned because they lack skills in protecting themselves, what other strategies might come to mind except for not trusting anyone, period? Does this make sense?"

He nods, gaze firmly fixed on the rug in front of him.

"Did you parents ever actively intervene with the bullying?"

"My mother told me that I needed to learn to deal with it myself, that there weren't always going to be adults around who could sort everything out. I remember being confused because the teachers kept telling us that we needed to speak up if someone was being bullied, but they couldn't really fix it—their interference just made it worse, lead to retaliation. I begged to be taken out of the village school, to be sent somewhere else, but no. Not until a year later. I was home-schooled through years five and six."

' _He's making a mountain out of a molehill because he's so sensitive_ ,' he remembers Mummy telling Father when they thought he wasn't listening. ' _How will he ever learn to stick up for himself and make friends if we don't give him a push to try_?' At that point he didn't even want friends because nothing he ever tried could gain him any. All he wanted was to be left alone.

"As I said, many autistic children don't at first recognise that they're being bullied. Human interaction is challenging enough for them to decipher that they may think it's simply a normal way for people to treat each other. Sometimes this even protects them—that they don't initially recognise it as harmful. But, this may also expose them to years of it without anyone interfering."

 _A death by a thousand cuts_ , Sherlock thinks. _I was_ _slowly bleeding to death for years, and no one noticed_. Not even home offered a sanctuary: there was his mother, constantly chipping away at whatever confidence he may have found in himself. His father silently accepting by not interfering. Mycroft staying out of it unless is was to reinforce their message to elevate himself. Sherlock's school and university years were plagued by the taunts of others. Even now, there are the reactions of his colleagues at work and John's friends when he says something he shouldn't have. The shared looks, the sarcasm people quickly realise he doesn't understand.

"We still too often tell bullied children to take the high road, to turn the other cheek, to understand and pity their bullies or to just ignore them. To an individual on the Spectrum, this may lead to them having too high a bar for unacceptable behaviour," Doctor Pichler explains. "If they, in adult life, become a victim of a crime, they might be unaware or unwilling to accept that a crime has taken place. There's also the fact that asking for help or trying to fight back may be impossible. Many ASD children are not really able to decipher or process what is going on beyond the fact that it makes them feel sad and upset, especially if the bullying is carried out by a socially competent person who can act in a very subtle manner."

Sherlock recognises this: feeling like he could never keep up or get back at those clever enough to challenge him socially. Those who just pushed him into ditches he could at least understand. When he was eight, another village boy he later had to tolerate at Harrow as well by the name of Charles Consett, had been exceptionally gifted at tripping him up not literally but proverbially; setting conversational traps where he embarrassed himself in front of others. With time, Sherlock began fearing every interaction with him, conditioned for failure. When he was nervous enough, his slight lisp would come out, and then Charles needed to put very little effort into tormenting him. Not speaking at all was his escape—he lost his words. It was easier without them. And, a side effect of what experts told Mummy was called _selective mutism_ , was that he no longer had to attend the village school. _'We can't teach a child who won't talk_ ,' he heard them telling his parents. _'_ _He needs specialised help_.'

Mummy huffed and told Father that if the school staff couldn't handle _her William_ , she would do their jobs herself.

Sherlock's mouth is dry. "I couldn't respond, so in the end, I didn't."

Doctor Pichler nods, looking sombre. "There's a figure of speech that many of my patients have used: that _'something has passed the point of communication_ '. It can feel like having something on the tip of one's tongue, but it just won't come. There are no words to furnish the feelings that have arisen, and the stress of the situation may mean that they are unable to say anything or tell anyone. They _freeze_ , and the demands of others for verbal explanations of events and emotions just make things worse. And, what can make things worse still is that ASD individuals may have severe difficulty in telling others what has happened—they may fear not being listened to, fear not being believed, fear being ignored or ridiculed."

 _Insult to injury_ , Sherlock thinks. He remembers Violet chastising him for not being able to describe those who had relieved him of his possessions at Cambridge. The more she pressed him, the more difficult it became to utter even a single word. The police weren't very understanding of his difficulties, so when he left the stationwith his mother the whole ordeal of trying to report it had just left him feeling even more upset, defeated and embarrassed.

 "Does what I described regarding freezing up, not being able to react, describe what happened to you during the mugging?" Doctor Pichler asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says plainly.

It doesn't really dilute the embarrassment to be offered an explanation as to why he couldn't function in that moment or afterwards. It is just as he had suspected: his paralysis must be a coping mechanism belonging in the realm of childhood.

The psychiatrist stands up, goes to her desk, and rummages around in a drawer, finally finding a notebook. "I'd like to read something to you," she suggests after returning to her seat. "It was written by Mark Dombeck, a psychologist with a PhD specialising in helping patients with trauma and PTSD."

Is she expecting permission? "Alright."

She clears her throat and begins. " _I'm 40 years old now; it's been something like 30 years since that sort of thing last happened. Still, the experience has not left me, it sucked so much. I don't think about it much these days, but I know that having lived through those experiences has shaped me as an adult, and not for the better. For the most part, physical damage sustained in a fist fight heals readily, especially damage that is sustained during the resilient childhood years. What is far more difficult to mend is the primary wound that bullying victims suffer which is damage to their self-concepts; to their identities. Bullying is an attempt to_ _instil_ _fear and self-loathing. Being the repetitive target of bullying damages your ability to view yourself as a desirable, capable and effective individual. Being bullied teaches you that you are undesirable, that you are not safe in the world, and that you are relatively powerless to defend yourself. When you are forced, again and again, to contemplate your relative lack of control over the bullying process, you are being set up for Learned Helplessness, which in turn sets you up for hopelessness and depression_."

"What am I supposed to do with that? Pity myself?"

"This is a highly educated person with a stellar career expressing honestly the profound effect the bullying has had on him, and he's not autistic. There are many kinds of pity, Sherlock. Sometimes, pity is about self-loathing, anger turned inward at what one sees as faults. Then, there is pity which we might also call self-compassion. Finding new perspectives, accepting the experiences we've had as what they were instead of trying to explain them away by blaming ourselves is part of finding that in ourselves. Accepting that we were wronged is another important aspect. If we don't recognise this, we cannot look after ourselves and draw lines at how we allow ourselves to be treated."

"Being idealistic up to the point of naivety isn't going to change anything."

"We're not trying to change the world, Sherlock— we're trying to change your perception of it. You didn't want to accept the way these experiences made you feel, so you told yourself a better story. Built an armour. Wielded your sharp tongue as a weapon.But, recent research shows that victims turned bullies had the most problems as adults and the worst prognosis, perhaps because they did not gain elevated social standing from bullying but simply isolated themselves more. When I listen to you, I often hear fatalism and pessimism. _'This is the way I am, so things will never be better and other people will never treat me differently_.' You have become more ready and willing to address your life difficulties in areas where the connection to autism is logical and understandable. But, you seem very reluctant to acknowledge experiences where you were treated badly though you didn’t do anything wrong. You have not allowed yourself to feel anger for the way your mother raised you until now. Perhaps there are other things in which it would be good reassign blame where it belongs. You have repeatedly stated that your mother berates you for what she perceives are your mistakes, but are you not the first to condemn yourself for not fulfilling your _own_ expectations regarding how you assume a _normal_ person would have coped? You've strung yourself up for not acting as proactively as you would have wanted during the mugging. The expectations of others and how profoundly you have always found yourself falling short of them is an integral part of your inner dialogue—the way you address yourself. What if, instead of assuming you are oblivious to the needs of others—your words, by the way—you accepted that while your brain is not particularly suited for deciphering the emotions and needs of others you are interested in trying and in doing so have achieved good results in your relationship. Instead of simply saying that you are 'not good with people', you might think that it's an area in which you have learned a lot and gotten a lot better. One way to redefine your story is through the way you describe the characters in it."

"No amount of semantics or wishful thinking will change the fact of what I am. No, perhaps I often didn’t do anything wrong, I just _was_... all wrong. It's not what I did, it's all the things I didn't do, or did differently. People pick on those who are not like them."

"Until their community shows them that it's not acceptable behaviour. Most parents, when they discover their child is being bullied, get angry. They get angry, and they take action in making it stop."

"But I never even asked them to interfere––" he trails out, not having decided what to say before he began protesting. Had he been about to defend his mother's approach? Why?

"I think we should work on getting from 'I' to 'they', putting blame where it belongs. Other people did things to you which hurt you, and it was wrong. You asked why this anger is happening, now. Perhaps you have reached a point in which you are no longer a person who accepts such victimhood. At Christmas you set terribly high standards for yourself in being able to cope. Perhaps they were too high at a point when your confidence had just suffered a blow. I hope that a part of you is ready to redefine those standards."

 _Christmas has always been a test to destruction._ "So, what next? You want me to _be_ _me_ and face the consequences instead of assimilation and camouflage, even though it always leads to embarrassment and failure and it _hurts_ when they tell me I'm a freak?!”

"It is only a failure if you allow normalcy to be a standard. It is only a failure if you don't demand to be treated as well as everyone else. It continues to be a failure, if you let the opinions of others and their expectations to form an insurmountable wall between you and them. You have often described John as someone who can breach that wall. You can, too; John could never have succeeded if you didn't allow it. Little by little, you have let him in, finding standards that work for you."

She pauses, fixes him in place with her stern but kindly gaze. "Before our next session, I want you to consider this: what if it's time for Sherlock to step out from behind that wall instead?"

Her words chase him out of the room, echoing in his head long after the session is over.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [Mark Dombeck's full essay](https://www.mentalhelp.net/articles/the-long-term-effects-of-bullying/).
> 
> Title from "Sleigh Ride".


	20. Strike The Harp and Join The Chorus

On Monday morning, Sherlock pinches his eyes closed and rubs his temples. He's trying to draft a letter to the Journal of Neurosurgery regarding one of their recent articles about a research project where the methodology is clearly shamefully lacking in logic. To back his points, he has just read through seven other articles, which have given him a headache. His eyes get so tired so quickly these days.

It's quiet on the admin floor of the neurosurgery unit; most other surgeons will be operating since it's ten o'clock, leading ward rounds or attending to their outpatient clinic sessions. Sherlock's morning case had been cancelled because the patient had suffered a massive coronary infarction late last night; angiography was performed, and the patient is now recovering at the ITU after going into acute dysfunction and cardiogenic shock. Their meningioma will have to wait until they're stable; there's no hurry since it's a benign, slowly growing tumour. After simply monitoring its growth via MRIs for several years Sherlock had finally decided to operate because the tumour looks to have begun pressing on the patient's olfactory nerve. He's a chef, so his sense of smell is vitally important for his work.

He goes to the break room to find coffee and is disappointed that only hot water and Nescafe is currently available. He wouldn't touch that stuff with a ten-foot pole. He wonders what their latest hapless foundation trainee is doing and if they might be inclined to go get him something decent from the Ruskin Park Cafe on Northway Road.

Footsteps hurry past the small break room, but then stop and retrace to the doorway. It's Lestrade.

"I was just about to call you. Could you pop in for a moment? There's a matter we need to discuss."

Sherlock gives the Nescafe jar one more glare and follows Lestrade to the man's office. He directs Sherlock to leave the door open; just as he's about to ask why, the elevator pings at the end of the corridor and John walks out.

Sherlock grunts in frustration. He's been summoned like this countless times before, and when both John and his boss are in attendance, he's usually done something wrong. John gives him a smile that doesn't extend to the man's eyes and closes the door carefully behind him. Both he and Lestrade remain standing and so does Sherlock. Both men are regarding him with their shoulders stiff with anticipation of conflict, chins jutted up. Whatever this is, John clearly thinks it's more serious than usual. Sherlock is hit with a sense of deja vu, borne out of being summoned to the dean's chambers at university, to the PD's office at the National, of the day he and Victor were plucked from class to be escorted to the Deputy Head Master's office where the man himself stood waiting with a police officer and Victor's father.

 _Nothing new under the sun_. Sherlock's lips press together, thin against his front teeth as he drops into the chair in front of Lestrade's desk and studies his fingernails. "Out with it, then," he prompts bitterly.

It makes him more uneasy than he can admit to that he has no idea what this is about. As far as he is concerned, things are, if not better then at least not getting actively worse. He's regained some of the focus he'd lost after Christmas but he knows he's still irritable, prone to snap at people. Still, Marie is speaking to him again and there have been no further post-its from Alice.

Lestrade, still standing nearly in parade rest just like John, pushes theatrically an envelope across the desk to the edge closest to him. Sherlock wonders which one has been assigned the good cop role in their tiresome routine.

"That was delivered by Anderson on Friday," Lestrade tells him. "A formal complaint regarding your professionalism. As per Trust policy, if the matter is not resolved intra-departmentally within a week, I have to escalate it."

Sherlock pointedly does not pick it up. "I couldn't give a toss even if that whingey imbecile wrote a postcard to the queen."

"You will, once this turns into a public competency tribunal," John points out sharply. "You already have one warning on your record. This––" he says, crossing his arms and nodding towards the envelope, "––is dry gunpowder they won't hesitate to throw a match at if the Board decides you're a PR liability. You're the star of this unit, but you know as well as I do how much reputation matters these days."

Admittedly, it is straight-backed from John to point all this out since he'd been the one to issue that first warning. It had been connected to Alice and designed to be a final warning for Sherlock to get his act together. Back then, the fact of that blemish on his record had not bothered Sherlock all that much—he'd chalked it partly up to John perhaps wanting to put to the grave, once and for all, any rumours of favouritism towards a spouse.

"If the two of you can play music together, you can co-exist in this department together," Lestrade says. "You already have, for years I might add. No one is saying you should become best friends, but you can't just do these things and not expect consequences."

" _'These things'_ —what things?!" Sherlock demands.

"Does the name Mabel Heynes ring a bell?"

"Fifty-eight-year-old woman, presenting with near-constant vomiting and imbalance. A pilocytic astrocytoma I managed to remove completely, and she's making a full recovery with only minor vertigo as a potential long-term sequelae."

"Mrs Heynes is very pleased with the care she received from you. She is less pleased with Anderson, since you managed to convince her that he would have made a wreck of that operation. She's made a complaint, and you can imagine Anderson's not taking that well since he didn't even actually treat her."   

John circles the desk he's been hiding behind and parks his bottom on the corner of it, close to Sherlock's chair. He leans forward, conspiratorial with a tinge of apologetic. "I know you've been…" His forehead arranges into a frown as he searches for a word, presumably wanting to avoid 'upset' which he knows Sherlock hates because it's the epitome of belittlement, "…preoccupied with personal stuff. But, you have to sort this. _Now_. I don't want to work here without you."

These words are a sudden jolt. Sherlock blinks, frowning at him. "It doesn't–– Anderson's just… being _Anderson_! It can't be that serious." he searches the expressions of both his husband and his boss for an answer he doesn't want to find.

Lestrade sits down behind his desk. "I doubt they'd fire you right away. But, they like turfing these kinds of issues to the GMC and then using their rulings as an excuse to protect the reputation of the Trust. You _know_ how the MPTS performance assessment tribunals work, and you know all the things they _will_ dig out and put on the table."

Sherlock thinks about the list of doctors on the MPTS website, linked to the front page. Even if no impairment of competency and performance is found, and even if the tribunal rules to keep parts of the assessment confidential, the reasons leading to such a process will be clear from the documentation available to anyone with an internet connection. The media follows the website religiously and with the press attention could well come the end his mother has always expected for his medical career. Not because he is not a competent surgeon, but because of other things he is.

_She can't have the last word. I won't let her._

Lestrade is watching him and John carefully, leaning back in his chair. "Do you want to talk in private for minute? I could use a cuppa."

Instead of making the decision, John looks at him, expectant. "Sherlock? Should we talk about this without Greg for a moment?"

"Why? What secrets do I have from him? He knows everything. He knows why I left the National. He's the one who kept yelling at me when I first arrived. He knows what I am good at, and what I can't manage. You both do."

"Yeah," Greg replies with a hollow chuckle. "We know also what you _can_ manage, when you put your best effort in. I am not losing my best bloody neurosurgeon because of some argument you had with Anderson when you were going through some personal shit. Things which John tells me you are already trying very hard to sort out."

A part of Sherlock wants John to look even more apologetic, now, for revealing such things to Greg. Sherlock wonders if John has told the man that he's been talking to a therapist.

Sherlock trusts Greg Lestrade, always has. He finds he worries less about what John may have told the man than he would have expected. _'It's not your fault_ ,' Pichler had told him. _'It's not your fault that you're reacting like this and I think these are things you have to process sooner or later._ '

"Remember when Flores was going through his divorce?" Greg asks.

Sherlock nods. Suddenly, all of the neurosurgeon's OR cases had been turfed to others. He disappeared for two weeks, then returned, thinner and haggard but clearly less distracted.

"The crap we go through in our private lives affects our work—something I hardly have to point out to either of you," Greg says pointedly. "When you returned from holidays after Christmas you weren't my best and crankiest neurosurgeon, just the crankiest. You were distracted, shoddy in your paperwork, completely without patience towards fellow staff and patients. I believe John when he says things are getting better, now, and I wouldn't be addressing this if it wasn't for Anderson's complaint. When John was injured, your work ethic and attitude didn't suffer even if you had to take a few days off. Clearly, whatever is or was bothering you is serious, and I'm bloody happy if it's already under control and you're talking to someone. But, we need to resolve this Anderson thing before we can get on with things."

Sherlock turns to John, heart beating faster with the stress of what he is realising they're expecting. He swallows. "John, couldn't you sort…"

His husband shakes his head with a joyless half-smile. "Has to be you. This is too big. If you don't make the effort, Philip's not going to relent. Not this time." The conviction in John's voice might be a sign that he has already tried talking to the man.

Sherlock snatches the envelope from the table and reads through the contents, wondering if Lestrade is even allowed to show this to him?

In his letter to the Board of Trustees, Anderson details his side of the incident and lists numerous other examples of Sherlock's behaviour he considers unforgivable. There's no way around it: if someone had taken over Sherlock's case the way he'd taken over Anderson's, there would have been hell to pay. Then again, no one would ever be insane enough to question his surgical skills. Not even Anderson would do that, electing instead to pick on him regarding everything non-medical.

To Sherlock's horror, Lestrade now has a landline receiver in hand. "I'll call him up; he should be at the ward."

Sherlock springs to his feet. "No! I––I don't–– What the hell do you expect me to say to him?! I'll make it _worse_ , I always do!"

"Do what you did with Alice," John suggests. "You fixed that beautifully with a bit of honesty and willingness to listen."

"What? Give The Botch post-it notes and tell him to jot down his complaints? He'd plaster my locker with them daily just to spite me!"

"Christ on a bicycle," John mutters, rubbing his face with his palms.

Despite the protests, Lestrade makes the call.

Five minutes later, Anderson appears at the door. At the sight of Sherlock his face scrunches up in that almost comically disdainful manner which Sherlock has always thought makes him look like a disgruntled weasel.

After glaring daggers at him, Anderson turns to leave.

"Philip," Lestrade calls out. "A _word_." Not a suggestion, a command.

Sherlock is unpleasantly surprised when John pushes himself off the desk and makes for the door. "You can manage," he leans in to whisper just as he's about to walk past Sherlock. "Don't let Violet be right," he adds, giving Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze before leaving the room.

Sherlock _knows_ that it's probably best that this is resolved just between surgeons. John being present would signal that Sherlock needs his help to have this conversation, or that he's hiding behind a spouse. Still, Sherlock feels anxious being left here without John to do…what exactly? _To just talk to Anderson? What the hell should I say?_

Sherlock stands up, offers the chair to the man to buy time. Anderson grabs hold of the backrest, shifts it slightly further away from the desk to keep a wary distance, and then sits down. Sherlock takes a step back to stand, petrified, next to a floor lamp. He feels like an idiot.

The envelope sits on the edge of the desk, and Anderson can probably see it's been opened. He will know that Greg has read it, of course, but it being there right now must reveal to Anderson that Sherlock is probably aware of the contents as well.

Anderson crosses his arms, glaring at him. Sherlock has always suspected the man has been so vocal in his dislike of him because there's a power play there he can't really analyse very well. Technically, they are equals, but Anderson is always trying to pull some imaginary rank on him based on having been a consultant longer. Sherlock doesn't understand why his existence would so bother a man who has always thought himself every way his senior and superior?

It suddenly occurs to Sherlock to wonder if he could use that fact to his advantage. "I'm aware––" he starts, then clears his throat, "––that my conduct with Mrs Heynes was not collegially respectful. I still think––" he continues, but a murderous glance from Lestrade makes him snap his mouth shut.

Anderson, now having adopted a look of nonchalance, turns to Lestrade. "Is that what you told him to say? Or John, possibly? Is there a teleprompter somewhere?"

Sherlock struggles to come up with what he could say next. _What does Anderson want? What has he been after all these years—an admission of weakness or inferiority? What chunk of flesh do I need to offer to make this go away?_

He had anticipated that Anderson wouldn't be happy about him taking over the woman's case and had tried to justify his intervention by denigrating the man. It had been a pre-emptive strike that has now backfired. He needs another approach, and Doctor Pichler's words about being a bit more open instead of putting on a proverbial suit of armour are still fresh in his mind. He's never tried such a thing, but it's the only option that comes to mind besides insulting Anderson effectively enough that he'd scuttle off. That won't work this time. Maybe it never has. 

"No one has told me anything except to sort this out," Sherlock says, trying to sound calmer than he feels. "Lately, I have been… distracted," he tries on for size. _It doesn't sound too embarrassing_ , he decides. "I have been distracted by personal matters, and in the process had little patience to monitor my behaviour."

"Well, I sure as hell didn't distract you, and my professional reputation hardly deserves to be collateral damage."

"Nor does Sherlock's, knowing what the end result of this would be," Lestrade says and picks up the envelope. He tucks the flap back in and puts it in his desk drawer. "This will go forward if we can't resolve what's going on here, but I sure as hell hope to avoid that. I thought we'd mostly got past this feud between you two."

"For the last two years, he's been…tolerable," Anderson spits out, pointing a forefinger rudely at Sherlock. "But now, he's gone back to being the same arsehole _freak_ you recruited."

Sherlock opens his mouth to unleash a venomous retort, but Greg lifts his hand up to stop him.

"Let's keep this civil on both sides," the senior neurosurgeon commands. "Philip, I've told you before that I don't ever want to hear that word. You can hardly expect him to apologise if you're just as disrespectful of him."

"I've heard that word before," Sherlock says heatedly. "That, and many more. It's what you've been hoping for, isn't it? That I would finally crack under the pressure, cross the line… whatever other cliché you want to throw at me so  you could get rid of me, preferably with the Board and the GMC humiliating me publicly in the process. I suppose I have now given you the ammunition. I apologise, Philip."

He realises that this conversation must be going badly and that the envelope in the drawer means that Anderson has won their futile battle of wits and authority.

"I didn't think you even knew that word but alright, then. I'm never very surprised when you act like a lofty prick, but nobody actually wants to get rid of you," Anderson points out. "Only a fool would question your research or how much work you put in or your skills. The department runs well when you're here; things get done and decisions made. Just stop putting the rest of us down. We don't like our work being questioned any more than you do. You did good work on Mrs Heynes—it's just the way you went about talking to her that was unacceptable."

Sherlock gapes. Anderson has never said anything nice about him. Why is he saying these things he hardly deserves, now?

"You must have a post-op appointment lined up for Mrs Heynes. If you agree to apologise to her then, with me present, along the lines you just did here, then I'll let the matter drop."

How could Sherlock apologise for an opinion he still holds—that Anderson wouldn't have been a good fit for Mrs Heynes' operation? "What do you want me to say to her?"

"That you are sorry for eroding her confidence in the care offered by the NHS by degrading a competent colleague?" Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock is tempted to summon his anger to enable him to say a few select words about having to grovel before a patient _he_ had cured. But, the worst thing he could probably do right now is aggravate Anderson further.

Anderson doesn't look very satisfied, either, but finally, he relents: "If you do that, and stop being such an arsehole, Holmes, this matter won't go further. People wouldn't have to resort to stuff like this if you learned how to shut up."

 _People? What people?_ Sherlock wonders until he remembers that this is far from the only written complaint against him ever made. Before John came into his life, responding to complaints was a regular part of his work. Perhaps he has, in his mind, he has made Anderson more of a bogeyman than he is by personifying all the negative attention he gets from his colleagues to him.

Anderson rises to his feet. "I have patients waiting."

Sherlock takes a step forward, scrambling to make sense of what's happening. The conversation seems to be over, but he's not certain at all about the outcome. "What do you mean?" is the sentence that drops down from some generic menu in his head.

"Contrary to what you might believe, I have no desire to waste time testifying to some tribunal or take on extra work while the Trust tries to recruit someone to replace you. You can keep that letter or rip it up," he says to Lestrade, cocking his head towards the side of the desk with the drawer and consequently the envelope. "Just stay out of my business," he warns Sherlock.

"It won't happen again," Sherlock promises.

Has he said enough? He apologised, didn't he? Should he repeat it? He has never understood how such words could erase wrongdoing and fix things, but that's how it seems to work with people—that the humility associated with certain words is considered punishment enough for the deed done.

"I am sorry," Sherlock tacks on for good measure. "And I will tell her." What's the harm, since he's already said it once?

"Didn't know you had it in you," Anderson mutters as he makes his way out of Lestrade's office.

Greg takes a seat behind his desk. His brows are hitched up and he crosses his fingers at the back of his head, leaning back. "That was quite something," he finally says.

"I know it's appropriate to apologise sometimes," Sherlock says defensively.

"Not what I meant. That was good, telling Anderson that you've not been yourself lately. You'd probably never believe it but he's an understanding and good guy, Sherlock, even if he's nothing to write home about as a surgeon."

Sherlock nods, begrudgingly. He knows it had been Anderson's doing that James Moriarty sits behind bars. The man hadn't gone to the police specifically because he wanted to help Sherlock, but him doing so is a sign that Anderson will do the right thing even if it causes stress and hassle for the man himself.

"I know you took over that case at least  _partly_ because you wanted the patient to get the best possible care," Lestrade laughs. "Best not pull such stunts to prick Anderson in the future, yeah?" he reaches into the desk drawer, takes out the letter and rips it in half before dropping it in the bin underneath the desk.

"You're alright, aren't you?" Lestrade asks. "John wasn't being very wordy about what's been going on."

"Family matters," Sherlock replies. "You know how it is," he adds, having learned that such a phrase can be used to coax forth both sympathy and an end to an awkward conversation.

"Not with John, though?"

"No," Sherlock confirms quickly. "John and I are more than fine."

Relief flirts with a sense of triumph over what has just happened. By being honest, he'd managed to solve the problem. Anderson's a much more sensible person than his mother, but could he try applying the same principle to defuse the one-sided trench war he's in with her?

 _One day, I will prove her wrong_ , Sherlock decides. _And if she won't listen, she'll have to face the consequences._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Deck The Halls".
> 
> Comment from J. Baillier: a reader at the comments section and another through a tumblr PM has asked who I'd cast as the OCs in this story. After much deliberation I concur that I would love to see Mandana Jones as Joanna Pichler and Monica Dolan as Violet Holmes. Canon Mr Holmes is pretty much the way I imagine George Holmes.


	21. Forth They Went Together

"How did it feel, revealing to a colleague that you have not been functioning at your best capacity at work?"

"I can't say that I was delighted to reveal such impairment to Anderson in particular, but John may have a point in that perhaps it will make the man consider whether I am as immune to his insults as he thinks. Whether I'm more _human_ than he assumes. You and John both seem to think I should be more trusting of people in this regard."

"It's not just ASD individuals who take others at face value. You may well have altered his image of you significantly with your honesty."

"I can't yet know if that's a good thing. I don't know whether he'll keep my confidence, or if he'll just use this as a stick with which to beat me some more."

"If your roles were reversed, he'd probably have the same worry. Trusting people like that carries risks, but the gains can be immense. Or, it can prevent disaster, as your conversation with your fellow neurosurgeon illustrated. Sometimes we cannot demand or expect understanding until we have shared the reasons for that need. Aren't there similarities between this and when you first approached John?"

"Yes. For some time, I suspected he was helping me out of pity, not because he enjoyed my company. That wasn't pleasant."

Doctor Pichler shifts in her seat. "There is a difference between empathy and pity, I think. Acknowledging the hardships in someone's life doesn't automatically lead to condescension and mollycoddling. Acknowledgement and acceptance are what you would want from your mother, isn't it, while avoiding the former?"

"It still doesn't mean that talking to her would change anything. She's not managed to update her approach on her own, and I am hardly the best to try to influence positive changes in anyone's behaviour. The origins of the way she treats me are, in _some_ ways, understandable, but none of it is acceptable, and I'm sick of it," Sherlock announces to Doctor Pichler. "I don't know if I can ever get her to understand my point of view. I could make a list of a thousand comments and behaviours I dislike and give it to her, but what if she quite never sees the big picture? She has this very particular way of twisting things so that everything is my fault."

"Perhaps you are not yet in a place where you can have that conversation with her, but I would encourage you to try, one day. The key might be to find the right context in which to do it without putting her on the spot—or allowing her to dominate the dialogue."

"Openly accusing my mother of something would only lead to a condescending lecture on her martyrdom and my ungratefulness."

"Perhaps…we should think of a conversation with your mother regarding the changes you need in your relationship as a marathon done in stages, not a sprint. Changing a relationship which has been set in its ways for decades may take years to alter. It will be a challenge not to get provoked, not to fall into old communication patterns. Instead of accusing her of things, you should be focusing on _informing_ and  _advising_ her. You should communicate how her behaviour makes you feel, even if she does not react in the way you hope. You need her to know this, whatever she may do with the information. This is for you, not for her. I am saying this while aware that not everyone's capacity for understanding ASD is the same. Ableism is often borne of good intention, but when it comes from someone who makes decisions on behalf of the person on the Spectrum, it can lead to underestimating and overprotecting that individual, even inadvertently treating them very badly."

She shifts a bit in her chair and then smiles. "Be careful of assuming that all the pathological patterns in your relationship are specifically connected to you. Many of your mother's behaviours, defences, habits and opinions will have been there long before you were born."

"That doesn't make them acceptable."

"No, it doesn't. And it makes them even more difficult to change. You are not alone in finding it hard to act your age and maturity around her, by the way. Parents have a unique ability to get under everyone’s skin and for them, we are always the children they watched grow up. This doesn't just apply to those on the Spectrum, but many ASD individuals have struggled to gain independence. Parenting a special needs child is an intense lifestyle, and not one borne out of choice. It's a deeply engaged, often downright symbiotic role—after decades of that role filling a parent's life, they may encounter intense and distressing feelings of being side-lined and suddenly unneeded after that child leaves home. The sense of losing control and intense fears over the child's safety are also very common."

"Shouldn't that _pass_?"

"Ideally, yes. But, if that parent and child do not manage to build a new relationship based on mutual respect and boundaries, a parent may find themselves struggling with that transition. This is why trying to change your relationship with your mother will require you to share things about your life and to find ways in which she could look at those things with a new perspective."

Sherlock scoffs. "Good luck with that. She'd blame me even for a rainy day."

"This is a person who likely made great personal sacrifices for you. Acknowledging that could help open up a dialogue. For you to be appreciated by her, she may need appreciation, too."

"And she deserves that how exactly?"

"This is why I said that you may not be ready for this conversation with her yet. Vilifying her intensely and employing very black-and-white thinking is not going to get you results. Even if you carry great anger towards her, and even if all that anger might be justified, you must be willing to listen to her, too. I'm going to give you a challenge right now: think of one thing you are grateful for when it comes to your parents."

"Why do you always defend her? You've never even met her! You can't know what she's like or whether she is in any way redeemable."

Doctor Pichler's smile does not wane. "I'm not defending her—I am trying to help you communicate. Just answer the question. After refraining from contact with your mother, you will need to be the one who extends an olive branch. Whacking her right on the head with it will only lead to further problems."

He leans his head back and looks at the ceiling for a moment, trying to find an answer. "Well, I suppose it has to be that they didn't put me in a special school, and my mother eventually home-schooled me when the village school turned out to be…not suitable. They encouraged me to apply to university, even if they never hesitated to tell me I'd picked the wrong field—they never doubted my intelligence, just all my other abilities. And, they've accepted John and our relationship without hesitation, even if some of their reasons for that may be condescending."

"Telling her some of those things might help her be less defensive. We've discussed how wrought with uncertainly and how full of conflicting advice her world may have been when you were first diagnosed. No one could tell her whether she was doing the right things, and she may have often felt doubt. Perhaps some of her behaviour might be due to seeking approval and confirmation; you have spoken of the way she eagerly appropriates your successes to her parenting."

"I detest the notion of needing to praise her. I'm so prone to anger in her company right now that I doubt I could even attempt talking to her about anything important."

"You can also explain that to her. That the way she treats you provokes you and makes it hard to communicate."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, _she knows_. She must. She _plays_ me."

Doctor Pichler looks thoughtful. "You tend to assume deliberate action on her part. Have you always made such suppositions regarding her social skills? Are you certain her actions stem from conscious manipulation and not from a _lack_ of social skills? You often seem to cluster neurotypicals together, assume their skill sets are advanced and identical, and compare yourself unfavourably to them. Sometimes, people are rude and insulting not deliberately, but because they lack the ability to assess how other people might experience their words. You have described your mother's approach to your being on the Spectrum as very rigid and formulaic. Perhaps she was not very skilled in improvisation and tailoring of the advice she received to your needs."

He shifts in his seat, mildly interested.

"Her relentlessness and the way you have described your therapy and the way she carried on with the principles of it outside therapy sessions is a good example of what I find to be perhaps the most detrimental feature of ABA. And, this may be connected to how difficult you feel it is to communicate with her—and others—about your needs. In ABAs older forms in particular, resistance and distress are swept aside and ignored, which strongly sends the message that the needs and emotions of the child receiving therapy are irrelevant."

" _'Temper tantrums are just resistance to change and need to be ignored'_ ," Sherlock says, quoting what he remembers the therapists telling his mother.

"I've had patients with a similar therapy history who have had severe difficulty in expressing even vital needs and drawing crucial lines in relationships even when they are being subjected to physical or sexual abuse. A child being told that there is something wrong them and that they're just being obstinate when they are unnerved or upset by things which they don't understand and which can trigger their SPD? Well, it's a very damaging message. There are emotional needs your mother may be fulfilling by hanging too tightly onto the past, but those needs are not more important than yours."

An errant memory makes itself known to Sherlock. He'd been in the halo vest, and one of the pins had got infected, which he'd tried to sort out himself because he didn't want to aggravate and tax John any with his troubles when John was clearly having a hard time himself. His orthopaedist had delivered several lectures on the importance of asking for help when he needed it, but he'd felt an intense resistance to doing so—that he had no right to demand those things of John. That his needs were fussy, indulgent and worthless. He doesn't want to spend Christmases in Sussex, but he wants John to be happy and to have those experiences he so clearly enjoys. But, they've had other kinds of holidays, just the two of them, together, and John has seemed equally—if not even happier—with those choices.

"My mother has had dozens of picture-perfect Holmes family Christmases at my expense," Sherlock concludes his train-of-thought out loud.

If Pichler is surprised by his apropos-of-nothing comment, she doesn't show it. "Her desire for such things is not more important than your need to rest and recuperate during the holidays and to feel safe, respected and accepted. I doubt she knows the effect these paint-by-numbers Christmases have had on you, and she may not have the skills and knowledge to realise that on her own."

"Or, she does and chooses to ignore it," Sherlock suggests.

"In which case we arrive, yet again, with the question of whether your needs are as important as those of others. Before you can convince someone else that they are, you need to believe it first."

Sherlock bites his lip without a word.

She continues. "Comparing yourself to the social skills of neurotypicals, you may be overtly kind to the skills of some of them because you always assume yours to be so much inferior. There are as many types of ASD as there are individuals on the Spectrum—I hardly need to tell you this. But, perhaps it would be good to remind yourself that great variation in skills of social interaction exist within the neurotypical population, too. Whether it be the product of past therapy or due to those things being one of your strong suits, I find many of your social skills much more evident than can be said for many of my other adult patients, and that even includes some neurotypicals. Clearly, your intelligence provides outstanding compensation for much of what you find challenging."

Sherlock internally dismisses this as empty flattery. He has never known very many other people on the Spectrum so he can't really assess how he would fare in comparison.

Doctor Pichler continues. "The way you describe your and John's relationship, the manner in which you function in it lacks many of the issues that tend to challenge most severely the relationships between ASD individuals and neurotypicals. You are finely attuned to his moods, physically spontaneously demonstrative of your affection, interested in intimacy beyond the mechanics of sex, and have found ways to withstand much social pressure and discomfort in order to support him in things that are important to him. I will tell you what I told him during our sessions: while being on the Spectrum does produce unique challenges and stressors in a relationship, it can also be an asset. You have certainly proven that."

Sherlock has never thought about it that way. He has always assumed to be the underdog, always the clueless one, the one who doesn't know how to make a partner happy.

He likes the fact that the psychiatrist doesn't always demand a reaction to her words. She speaks, let him soak up the words and quietly consider them. She had once explained that the average therapy patient might get much more of what she called stage time than most patients do in her office, but that fact stems from the nature of her patient population. _'It's part of being a therapist to be an educator,_ ' she had told Sherlock, _'many of my ASD patients are acting on outdated information just like your mother, and sharing more encouraging and modern views of autism is often very important to the success of my work with them'_.

"Perhaps it's time to take neurotypical people off the pedestal you've put them on," the psychiatrist suggests to Sherlock. "That includes John when it comes to your relationship, and your parents when it comes to social and coping skills. As we have discussed, they may have done their best in those times and in the circumstances they found themselves in. When they welcomed you into the family, they were not experts in how to care for such a child, and many things they have done haven't been good. We can recognise that, but we can also acknowledge their intentions, and question whether those have been deliberately destructive even if that was their effect."

Sherlock does have many good memories from his childhood, but they live in the shadow of the bad ones. During the past few months, his anger has made him determined to shove away all the good things, but does he really want to do that?

He remembers a morning when he had, once again, tried to fake being ill so that wouldn't have to go to the school in the village. In the end, it wasn't even much of a lie: the headaches, the stomach pains, the loss of appetite and feeling faint were all real, even if the cause wasn't somatic. He'd been curled up in bed when Violet had come in and sat on his bed. She'd not said much, and Sherlock is quite certain, in hindsight, that she had been trying to hide her own teary distress from him. When he'd finally sat up, blanket wrapped tightly around him, she pulled him into a tight hug—curiously, it's one of the only ones he remembers as not distressing; perhaps he'd been anxious enough that it had provided a distraction. They'd sat on the bed for a long time, quietly, and finally Violet suggested: _'Let's go see the horses. You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ '

The next morning, Violet told him there would be no more village school.

This memory is the only time Sherlock remembers her mother seeing past his immediate behaviour, recognising what was really going on, and doing something with him that really did make him feel better. It's so hard to decide whether the fact that this is the only such instance he can recall is proof that there is hope—or a foundation for pessimism.

"Have you considered why you'd want to change your mother's opinions? Why not just walk away? Why not just admit defeat?" Doctor Pichler asks, and her tone is slightly provocative.

"I have asked myself those questions repeatedly. John keeps saying that even with all her shortcomings, she's still my mother." He sighs. "John pointed out that if I didn't care what she thinks, I wouldn't be angry at her. If I didn't care, I _would_ have already walked away."

"Anger can be a stand-in emotion for lots of things, complicated things. It is very common for autistic individuals to express sadness, grief or anxiety through anger. Anger can also be a manifest sign of stress levels rising too high because of big changes in one's life. We often underestimate the impact of something _ending_ —such as your and John's time in Malosa. Other potential reasons for anger in ASD individuals are abuse or mistreatment, communication difficulties, a sense of injustice towards how one is being treated, a sense of being ignored and side-lined in decision-making, and therapy aimed at suppressing autistic behaviour. To me, it sounds like many of these things have happened to you just as they have happened to most of my other autistic adult patients. What varies are the ages and situations in their lives in which these have occurred."

She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, expression sober. "I want to be realistic here, Sherlock. I have not met your mother, let alone assessed her, so I cannot say with any certainty whether it is good for your mental health to retain a relationship with her long-term. I will do everything I can do help you seek a more constructive connection with her, but if those attempts appear detrimental, I will not hesitate to tell you so. You have the right to say no and to have it mean something. Do you trust me to provide an honest opinion?"

He considers this. She has always been honest with him. "I do."

"Without stopping to analyse this too much, off the top of your head: do you feel a need to attempt to build a new kind of relationship with your mother?"

"Yes." That's why it all bothers him so much: he can't let this go, can't just banish her. _She's still Mummy_. Even if his parents have done much to diminish his confidence, it could have been worse. It would be dishonest to say that he believes that shame and cruelty were behind all of Violet Holmes' decisions and behaviours. Behind his mother's determination that he should learn to blend in seemed to also be the desire to give him all the same things other children had. _Can I ever truly understand her_? _Or Father?_

She continues. "You have been angry lately, perhaps angrier than ever before, and that is good, because that anger requires a sense of injustice. To reach into that, instead of turning your anxiety inward and blaming yourself, means deciding that what was done to you was undeserved and wrong, and that you won't accept it anymore. But, I want to reiterate that severing all the relationships connected to those past experiences without attempting to resolve those emotions won't provide closure, only suspends you in that anger. Remember when we discussed bullying?"

He hums in confirmation.

"One consequence of a victim's low confidence and wounded self-concept is that they can lose out on opportunities for career advancement, further education and ultimately, employment. Some children avoid school and avoid getting good grades so that they'll be bullied less; for others, the effects may be much less pronounced. If school is a place of horror, why stay? But, you didn't fall into that trap—didn't let your past experiences stop you from reaching your full career potential. You are a renowned neurosurgeon; it would have been quite a waste of your talents to ignore that calling. You have worked hard to learn skills that neurotypicals find easier to acquire, and you have succeeded in building good relationships with the people in your life. You have achieved so much, and I believe you are very capable of attempting the feat of communicating with your parents."

"You make it sound as though all that came easily."

"Not at all. I can only begin to imagine what the challenges of the social side of medical studies and patient work have been."

"And continue to be."

"Of course. I'm curious: was the gap year you took the first time you rebelled against expectations and chose not to give up despite negative experiences?"

"Maybe. I was old enough to have achieved some autonomy. Not that my family didn't try to strip it off me, especially after what happened with Victor. Rebellion is a good word when it comes to him; nobody believed I could have a relationship with a person I chose. We weren't involved romantically—he was straight—but it was the first time I guess I…wanted someone, and that didn't conform to my family's ideas about what is or isn't good for me."

"And now you have found a relationship that clearly _is_ very good for you."

"At first, I nearly scorned John for being so naive as to think that I could just flip a switch and decide to get along with people," Sherlock explains. "He didn't know what my life had been like. It was astounding that, even after he got to know me rather well, he didn't leave. He kept insisting other people would like me if I gave them a chance to get to know me. Or tolerate me. I don't know. At some point, maybe I began to wonder if I had anything to lose by trying."

Doctor Pichler raises her palm. "There you go. We can't control the past, but we can try to make the most of the future. I have often quoted a poet called George Herbert who has said that living well is the best revenge. Instead of being told to accept people's dislike and the way you were mistreated, perhaps John has helped you realise that you deserve the same as everyone else, and that you could achieve it. The trouble is that it has created a conflict between your good experiences and John's approach, and the message you feel you are receiving from your family. He's not just your romantic partner; he's also your friend and confidante. The few times you have spoken of Victor, even though you parted ways and he has now passed away, you seem to remember him fondly; you were friends. Such connections can go a long way in repairing damage caused by others, including parents. I don't seek to downplay the harmful experiences of your childhood, but perhaps there are also good qualities in your parents, the re-experiencing of which could go a long way in repairing your relationship to them. We just need to devise ways to coax them forward."

Suddenly, a memory Sherlock had not connected at all to recent events slips in. "This has happened once before. The anger, I mean."

Pichler frowns slightly, leans forward. "Tell me more."

Sherlock swallows. "I had a mentor at the National. He died, very suddenly. After that it was… the others didn't…Andreason _protected_ me. He didn't expect me to get along with others, who saw his approach as favouritism. After he died, I––I started using again because it was too much, what went on at work. I remember thinking that if that was what being a doctor would be like for me, then it wasn't worth it and that I should just give up."

"What happened?"

"Mycroft interfered when he came to visit because he happened to be in London. He wasn't supportive of me returning to the profession, but he arranged a spot in rehab and used his connections to ensure I wasn't booted out. But, when I returned, I was a persona non-grata even worse than I was before, and they used a court case to pressure me to seek a position elsewhere to finish my training. Thankfully, my research had gained me some respect by then and the King's College Trust recruited me. When I briefly returned to the National after being on sick leave, I decided I had this one chance to find my way and to hold on to my career, and I chose to do it by not trusting anyone, by not even trying to get along with others. Trying to be like them had never worked before. Better to be feared than pitied. I was _angry_ _._ "

The psychiatrist smiles. "Then, along came John, who thankfully changed your mind. He helped you not underestimate yourself."

A smile suddenly takes over Sherlock's features; he remembers the first time John ever gassed for one of his cases. _'Amazing_ ' and _'brilliant_ ' is what John had said out loud about him instead of _'narcissistic arsehole_ ' and _'freak_ '. John doesn't seek to change the core of him—only to help him manage in areas where he has difficulties. John assumes competency, so he expects more than just patterned behaviour.

"It may not be just Africa that has brought you more confidence; perhaps the recent years with John have been a part of why you can no longer tolerate being denied respect and understanding, and why you are beginning to question whether you always need to be the one to change. I've made note of how you look at many positive things, such as John, in your life with confounded awe, as though you came by them through some stroke of luck. That's not true. You did it, Sherlock, all on your own. And those things are a good place to start appreciating yourself. You need to do that first before you can teach anyone else to follow suit."

"I need to decide what to do about my birthday. My parents want to treat us for dinner, as they've done in the past. My mother has been putting pressure on John to make it happen this year."

"Perhaps that might be a good test regarding how you feel about interacting with her. I'm not suggesting you try to engage with her about the things you need to talk about—perhaps just re-acclimatise to being in her company. I assume this would happen in London?"

"Yes. Neutral ground."

"Good."

He sighs. "I'm not sure. I don't want to lose control of the situation, and I know she will try to dominate things." He bites his lip, glances at Doctor Pichler. "The birthday dinner makes me anxious, because it _is_ about control with her; I've come to realise that. I don’t appreciate the way I reacted to the mugging, how helpless I was. I still find myself nervous to go on the Tube, and the same applies to going to the hospital locker room or the garage alone."

The psychiatrist plucks a piece of paper she had arranged on her desk and begins reading from it. " _Feeling as if you are in a state of ‘high alert’ and are ‘on watch’ for anything else that might happen. Becoming emotional and upset. Feeling extremely fatigued and tired. Feeling very stressed or anxious. Not wanting to leave a particular place for fear of ‘what might happen’. Reduced concentration and memory. Intrusive thoughts about the event. Repeatedly playing parts of the event over in the mind. Confusion or disorientation when faced with a similar situation. Not wanting to connect with others or becoming withdrawn from those around you. Increased heart rate, disturbed sleep, changed appetite. Turning to substances such as alcohol, cigarettes or coffee. Later on, a so-called let-down phase may occur, during which symptoms often centre on depression, avoidance, guilt, oversensitivity, and withdrawal_. Does this sound descriptive of your experiences as connected to the mugging?"

"That checklist of symptoms sounds like John's PTSD," Sherlock points out dismissively. Admitting to how many of those things sound awfully familiar when it comes to the past month makes him uneasy. 

"PTSD is an extreme point on a continuum of how humans react to stressful experiences. The intensity varies, and so do the symptoms according to invidual defence mechanisms, coping mechanism and yes, neuropsychiatric makeup, but there are ways in which nearly all humans react after a traumatising experience, be that event big or small."

"You want to slap on me yet another diagnosis, then." He purses his lips angrily.

"Quite the contrary. As I have pointed out before, diagnoses are just a tool, and I would not consider giving you one very useful in this case. In fact, I'd like to repeat what I just said: that all people react to exceptionally stressful situations, and many parts of those reactions are universal. It hasn't been that long from the incident, and there is much that we can do to help you. Time also tends to prove a very effective remedy on its own. Your past may have dictated that instead of being angry for having been attacked, you inverted the anger because you've been taught to blame yourself for when people treat you badly. There's a lot we can do together to alleviate your symptoms—and I'm sure John will be able to share some of the lessons he has learned."

Her lip then quirks up. "I am fully aware of how outlandish you may find the notion, but the residual anxiety you have described after being the victim of a violent crime means that in some ways you, Sherlock Holmes, are entirely _normal_."

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

"How's it going with Joanna?" John asks him the next morning as they're preparing for work.

An apprehension grips Sherlock; this is how he still feels every time the appointments are mentioned. He disappointed in himself for, once again, forgetting that John has been through all this—and worse—when it comes to therapy.

That's what it is, what he does with Joanna Pichler. _Therapy_ _._ The word has somehow slipped into his vocabulary. "I'm finding conversations with her helpful, though I still have no desire to play nice with my mother," Sherlock announces, hoping to forestall further discussion.

John grabs a dress shirt from the door handle, slips into it and starts doing the buttons. Sherlock makes a final scrutiny of his hair, shoving away irritation at how it'll feel after the predicted heavy rain tonight. He'd prefer not to have to wash it every day but this morning, the product he's used to make it less electric in the cold will feel oily in his fingers if and when his curls get properly wet. Before the halo episode, he had kept John strictly out of his business when it came to his hair. But, needs must. He had been forced to let John in, and some of the things they did together during those days out of necessity have stayed, become a part of the physical landscape of their relationship.

Sherlock can't really see more value than risk in letting other people into his life and his head on the level he allows John but lately, he has begun to accept that there are shades of grey to dealing with other people. It's no longer just a choice of either accepting or repelling them; he is beginning to see each relationship as unique, and that there is benefit in allowing them to slowly achieve the right balance between distance and openness. He is also beginning to believe that he can regulate that process in other ways than just pushing people away to protect himself. It's a strange notion, what the therapist has suggested, that openness might actually be the right way to create sturdier boundaries between him and Violet Holmes.

 _'_ _Identity is not borne in a vacuum, and it does not stop evolving when we reach early adulthood,_ ' Doctor Pichler had once explained to him. _'It's a social process to which others greatly contribute. And, that is good news, because they can also contribute to it in positive ways—one might say that a professional therapeutic relationship is largely based on this premise. Your reticence to agree to such a relationship was based on your past experiences in therapists attempting to mould your identity in ways you felt were inherently wrong and intrusive. Now, as an adult, you can choose to expose yourself to experiences which might have the opposite effect. Yes, those experiences carry risks and they will feel difficult because your habit of protecting yourself has always been to turn away from the world, but there really is very little to lose. You have already experienced the worst; now, isn't it time to experience better things?_ _'_

"I don't want to take sides—except I do: yours, of course," John muses, "Maybe it's not a bad thing to make Violet work for it a little. I don't understand all of it, but I do see that she doesn't quite know what to make of you. Your birthday's coming up," John points out, as if Sherlock needs reminding. "George called me yesterday; they've got a reservation at Petrús for four to celebrate. We've been meaning to try the place out, haven't we?"

Sherlock can recognise that this suggestion is a crossroads, and his answer will determine whether the path he chooses will take him so far from his parents that there might not be a way back, or potentially closer to them. _Avoidance is not a solution, if it comes at too high a price_. George Holmes goes where Violet follows, and whatever Sherlock might think of his mother right now, that doesn't extend to his father.

A restaurant is neutral territory; she'll be less likely to try to dictate to him how he should act, who he should be. He needs to take control in how he deals with her. "You can tell them we'll be in attendance," Sherlock announces.

They make a beeline for the kitchen, where John produces a cappuccino and an espresso. Eventually, he notices Sherlock standing by the breakfast bar, looking expectant and nervous. There's something he needs to do, at least according to Doctor Pichler.

John passes him a mug—he's used a regular one instead of a proper espresso cup but Sherlock refrains from commenting. "Something on your mind?" John asks when their fingers brush up against each other's as the beverage is passed to its rightful owner.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind giving me a lift in the afternoon and home afterwards?"

"To…Harley Street? I thought you had an appointment only yesterday."

"No, not to Harley Street." Sherlock hopes that John won't comment on his nervousness, won't make some saccharine supportive exclamation which would embarrass him. "I was hoping you'd accompany me to Paddington Green Police Station? I thought it might be useful to have the mugging investigated by a unit who knows the area."

John sips his cappuccino, then wipes off foam from his lips with the back of his hand. "You can report online, too."

"It was strongly suggested I do this in person."

For some inane reason, Pichler had thought that it would be good for him. His eidetic memory has preserved her exact words: _'You were subjected to a crime. No action on your part could make that acceptable. Draw a line, Sherlock, and put the blame where it belongs. Demand the respect and acknowledgement you are entitled to. It doesn't matter how good or clever or thorough a witness you think you are—you deserve to be treated with respect, anyway_ _._ '

He likes that. It had been tiring, as a child, to spend hours seeking reasons in himself for the way he was being treated by others. Now, he had nearly fallen back into a trap to blaming himself for the mugging, for his inaction and for his—according to Doctor Pichler, very normal—shock afterwards.

"So you never reported the…thing before Christmas? I didn't want to bring it up."

"John, I… Perhaps, sometimes, it might be good if you did bring up things you think we need to discuss. If I can't deal with it, I'll tell you, but sometimes I find it difficult to initiate such conversations or assess what requires relationship dialogue. "

This connects to something else the psychiatrist had told him: _'I would encourage you to be even more open towards John about things you find difficult. For instance, when the words don’t come, tell him exactly that. He has struggled with the impulse to pave the way, to make things easier for you, but he wants to avoid depriving you of your agency_ _._ '

John nods, leaning in for a brief kiss. Sherlock has made note of the likelihood of such gestures increasing every time he attempts to verbalise emotions connected to their union.

"Is it Joanna who thinks you should do this?" John asks, opening a bag of toast.

"Yes," Sherlock replies plainly. He is not entirely convinced that such legal theatrics have as much benefit as the psychiatrist had insisted, but he agrees with some of her reasoning. "It's unlikely they'll be caught," Sherlock says, having swallowed down the rest of his coffee. "But at least it will help maintain reliable records on London's crime rate. It's a question of doing the right thing, rather than pretending it never happened."

John nods, smiling. "Of course I'll come with you."

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
  
At six in the evening, they are lead into an office by a young, scrawny sergeant by the name of Dimmock. At first, the pessimism he expresses concerning the chance of finding those responsible grates on Sherlock's nerves, but in the course of the interview, the young man does manage to ask some pertinent questions. One of them is a description of the watch; Dimmock seems pleased to learn that it had an inscription on it, courtesy of Sherlock's father.

"We'll keep an eye out for it, put it on the list of stolen property we circulate to pawn shops and the like. Might even give us a link to an existing investigation if someone tries to pawn it off with items stolen from elsewhere," the sergeant suggests.

 _Perhaps there is hope for the competency of Her Majesty's police services, after all_ , Sherlock thinks.

On their way back to where they'd parked, Sherlock has an odd compulsion to go on a slight detour following the route he'd taken that day before Christmas. Hand in hand with his husband, he feels no unease when they arrive at the spot he remembers too well.

The road where it had happened is like any other in London, but Sherlock has the distinct sense that it has led him onto a rather important path.

 

**— The End —**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Good King Wenceslas".
> 
> What next, you ask. When and how will Sherlock confront his mother? What secret are the Holmes parents carrying? How will that birthday dinner go? You shall find all the answers in "You Go To My Head — Family Medicine" which will be published in April. 
> 
> But, before April, J. Baillier will take her readers on a detour to Cambridge…


End file.
